


Healing the Shieldmaiden

by TheStargazer



Series: Tales of Middle Earth [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, Gen, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-19 16:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 51,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11902107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStargazer/pseuds/TheStargazer
Summary: Éowyn woke up, robbed of her glorious death, to find that she was yet again a prisoner. Watching her brother march away, she finds the healing she did not know she needed in the form of two companions: her soldier in arms Meriadoc Brandybuck and the new Steward of Gondor Faramir. Those days in the Houses of Healing opened her heart, and finally she knew what was in it. As they await the fate of Middle Earth, their healing runs deeper than the wounds and shadows.[Note] I was unsatisfied with the end of the Faramir/Éowyn arc, so this is written in intimate 3rd person so we can walk through Éowyn's mind and see the changes that felt abrupt in the book seed, grow, then blossom as she gets to know Faramir in the House of Healing, and comes to see that she wants to be a healer, and that she loves Faramir.And of course, the works of Tolkien do not belong to me.





	1. Chapter 1

Black mist enshrouded her. All around her, the sounds of the battle. The roar of the fell beast. The scream of the Nazgûl. And the fear. The all-encompassing fear that pierced her heart. Her uncle lay below his horse, broken, gasping, reaching out to her for help. But she couldn’t reach him… all around her the mists were growing ever denser and darker.

“Éowyn, daughter of Éomund. Come to your King…” it was barely audible, no more than an echoing whisper amongst the mist. But then it came again, louder and clearer, “Éowyn, shieldmaiden of the Mark. Come to your King!”

She turned around, and a faint light shone upon her face.

“Éowyn! Éowyn!” this time the voice she heard was that of her brother. Full of love and hope and pleading. And she knew that she had to come. With the greatest of efforts, she walked away from the swirling black mists, toward the light, which was becoming brighter and warmer with every moment, until it was unbearably bright. Éowyn forced herself to continue striding onward.

She felt big rough hands touching her face, and tears dripping upon her nose.

_ One more effort, Éowyn _ , she thought.  _ Open your eyes. _

As the room came into focus, she saw those hazel eyes that looked like the pastures of autumn, tears cascading down their edges. Éomer was here. So it wasn’t a dream. Her uncle was dead. Her brother was now King of Rohan. She and Merry had slain the Witch King. And she was alive.

So she had failed, it seemed.

She had been called back from hell and asked to keep on existing. Robbed of her escape, of her valiant and glorious death. Yearning to fly free, she’d again been netted and thrust back into her cage.

As she regained her senses, Éowyn winced. Her entire body ached. Sharp pains radiated through her shield-arm, belying the broken bones beneath expertly wrapped bandages. Her sword arm, which had slain that foul monstrosity was cold and numb, but she could feel a tingling sensation starting in her fingertips. Éomer drew back slightly, and she saw she was in a small room, with a window pointing west. This must be the House of Healing in Gondor. Everything came into focus then. Éowyn could see Éomer’s anguish, elation and dread for her intertwined. A king, a warrior, but to her, ever the big brother. His anguished look returned her to the time she’d waded too deeply into the river, and was swept under the current before being pulled to her rescue.

_ Dear brother, I fear we find ourselves on the banks of that river yet again _ , Éowyn thought,  _ though this time I would fight to sleep, and you would have me wake up. _

But wake up she would, because of the look in Éomer’s eyes. If she were to leave him, as their mother and father, their cousin, and now, their uncle had, he would be a man completely broken by grief. So she decided, for the time, to stay.

“Brother” her voice quavered, but she willed the joy she saw in his eyes to reflect in her words. At this, Éomer let out a small wail and grasped his sister’s cold right hand, kissing her fingertips.

“Sister! I thought I’d lost you. I thought you were gone.” Éomer’s voice was awash with relief despite the tears still flowing down his face. Éomer put his hand to her cheek, letting his fingers gently glide against her skin. Éowyn smiled. If one was to rob her of her glorious death, she was glad that it was him.

But… it wasn’t just him. The first voice was that of Aragorn, and yet when she opened her eyes, he was no longer there, having not even lingered those brief additional moments. The absence of the man who called her forth cast a shadow upon her heart. Aragorn would never see her person, only her sex. The shadow’s hold on her grew. Éowyn willed herself to concentrate on the love in her brother’s eyes, forcing the shadow in her heart to retreat.

She let her mind return home. Racing Éomer through the thickets, their harried parents chasing behind them. Sitting in the open fields gorging themselves on wild strawberries. Attacking their father with sticks crying the battle calls of the éored, then being scooped up and tickled until they dropped their weapons in fits of giggles, secure in his arms. She remembered running into her mother’s waiting embrace, smelling the scent of lavender in her hair. She remembered whispering to Éomer at night of the dragons they would slay and maidens they would rescue from towers guarded by the biggest and meanest of goblins.

_ Alas brother, for I am the maiden in the tower _ , Éowyn thought, as nostalgia snapped quickly back to despair, as she then remembered the impotent rage in her brother’s face at the slow poisoning of their uncle and the obsessive energy that Gríma Wormtongue had focused on her. Of the husk of her mother choosing to die rather than live without their father.

She forced herself into the present again, back into her brother’s eyes. She was the slayer of the Witch King and yet she was also the maiden in the tower, and so very tired.

“Brother, forgive me, but I need rest,” Éowyn looked steadily into Éomer’s eyes, “I promise I shall wake again tomorrow to see you.”

Éomer relaxed his gaze at these words, placed a kiss upon her forehead, and left. Éowyn was not sure why she felt compelled to make such a promise, but knew that she would keep it. The shadow would not win her, at least not tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

Éowyn awoke with a start,  _ only a dream _ .

Éowyn often dreamed of muffled footsteps following her through dark corridors. No matter how fast she ran, those steps always kept apace, getting closer with each of her efforts to evade them, accompanied by the low growling of the hungry animal that hunted her, his soft voice whispering words of hopelessness only she could hear.

A dull twilight emanated from her window, signaling the coming of morning. Though it was clear that the sun had risen, the dark clouds coming from the east were not surrendering her light readily. Éowyn sighed, which roused someone who was just outside her bedroom. Éomer burst in, and was to her in three great strides, grasping her sword hand.

“See brother? I kept my promise,” Éowyn forced her voice to be light. This was no time to recount her fitful dreams. Éomer rubbed his calloused thumb into her palm, and Éowyn recognized his apprehension (he could not keep his hands still when he was anxious), “What is it brother?”

“Our time together is shorter than I imagined my dear sister. We march to the Black Gates for a final assault on Mordor. I’m leading the Rohirrim host and we leave on the morrow before Dawn.” Éomer looked crestfallen, but proud. Éowyn could see the despair in his tightened features, and her heart lurched. So this was how she would lose her brother too. Despair began to overpower her again, and the shadow she had willed away prowled the boundaries of her mind. She again pushed it back, bringing to her mind a question that had been nagging her.

“Then tell me brother, before you must leave. How was the battle turned? I can only recall up to… up to…  _ his _ death.” whether Éowyn was speaking of her beloved uncle or that putrid unspeakable Wraith, she could not say. But she was alive, and so was Lord Aragorn, and Minas Tirith found reprieve for the time being. She desired to know how. Before she could stop herself she added, “and please tell me of the fate of Merry, our brave halfling!”

Éomer smiled, not taking his hand from his sister’s, and told of his hopeless charge into the the enemies’ ranks. And the miraculous arrival of the Umbar Corsairs, filled not with enemies, but allies, headed by Lord Aragorn himself. He spoke of Prince Imrahil and the valor of the Swan Knights, who charged forth and provided cover for the Rohirrim to regroup behind enemy lines. And finally, he spoke of Merry stumbling in supported by his halfling kin, then being drawn back from the shadow by Aragorn, and immediately asking for supper. The tale of Merry’s recovery brought a flicker to Éowyn’s eye, the faintest glimmer of joy in the blackness that surrounded her.

“Without Merry’s timely distraction, my blade would not have slain the Witch King. For Merry’s blade pierced that foul thing’s leg and left me my opening. He saved my life and deserves all the valor of the most worthy of knights of the Riddermark,” Éowyn did not break her gaze from her brother, willing him to contradict her, “And I would have him be hailed so.”

Éomer returned her gaze, and with a flicker of gratefulness and joy, exclaimed “then it shall be so! Once these dark days are done, I will knight our brave squire myself.”

“Hail King of Rohan!” Éowyn winked. Her beloved brother. Co-slayer of imaginary dragons and co-savior to imaginary maids in towers. Now King. Now in command of the Riddermark and marching  to…

The flame of momentary joy that ignited in her heart was then doused. Her valiant brother. His laughter. His unceasing care and protection of her; he would be riding away to his doom. It was as if she was back in Edoras. The Ranger - no, King. - who brought their people freedom from Wormtongue’s poison rode away to the doomed Path of the Dead. Her uncle, free and whole for the first time in what seemed like ages called the soldiers of the Riddermark to Gondor, knowing they were gravely outnumbered. Her beloved brother was at their uncle’s side, also riding to their doom. She had lost so much in that place.

She would not be trapped in Meduseld, waiting idly inside for the shadow to arrive and burn her with the rest who stayed behind (as Aragorn had deemed her role). So she donned a helm and her sword and became Dernhelm, and she mounted her beloved Windfola and rode forth to confront death on her own terms. The last of the proud House of Eorl, riding to their dooms. She had seen Merry, conscripted to the fate of staying behind ( _ her _ dictated fate), and she felt pity and anger for him, and drew him onto her mount.

Yet Aragorn survived, and so did her brother, and King Théoden had died a glorious death, worthy of the halls of his forebears. And she’d earned her place in the tales of old. Yet, her brother and Lord Aragorn were riding again to their doom, and she was cursed again not to follow, this time by her incapacitation. In that moment, she could feel the shadow pierce her heart, and she despaired. Curse her traitorous arms! The broken one was healing well, and she was regaining feeling and warmth in the arm that slay the demon, but she was not whole. Yet she did not care.

“Let me come with you brother. You need every sword, and have I not proved myself worthy of such a ride?” Éowyn did not need to see Éomer’s reaction to know that there were no words in common tongue, Westron, Rohirric, or any manner of Elvish that would sway him.

Éomer had drawn his hand away. His eyes were wide. With pity? No, that was fear. Éowyn could see the reflections of despair and she knew that he was as terrified of losing her as she was of losing him. And yet, he would ride to his doom, and she would be relegated to wait for the news of his demise. “No, sister.” he said quietly, “I barely bore your death once, and cannot bear it again.”

“And what of your death, brother?” Éowyn’s eyes lit with fire “You ride to your doom and death and  _ again _ leave me to wait for the darkness to wash over me. Do I not have as much claim to a valiant death as you?”

Éomer put his face in his hands and trembled, stifling a sob that had escaped his throat, “I ride to my doom so that you can have the light of a new day! Knowing that my courage in the face of overwhelming odds may mean that you are able to rebuild our lands and people will carry me to the end. I let you down when that poison-tongued menace infiltrated our lives, but I will not again. They will follow you, Éowyn. For they love you with nearly the fervor I do, sister.”

Éowyn wanted to rebuke him, to tell him that if he failed, then doom would be upon them all. But she could see so clearly his despair and pain that she stayed her tongue. She would not ask him for his leave again, if only to protect him from the pain he so clearly bore over her. She beckoned him to her, and invited a hug. He first gingerly, then fiercely pulled her in. Letting all pretense of composure fall away, he sobbed into her shoulder. She whispered to him that she would rebuild their people in his stead, and tell the great tales of the valiant son of the House of Eorl. Slayer of Mumak and rescuer of the White City.

Éomer stayed with Éowyn for the rest of the day, paying little attention to the healers bustling in and out to tend to his sister. They talked of old times, of rides and blackberry bushes, and broken bones and stern nannies. Of pranks on their cousin Théodred and secret trips to the smithy to admire the swords. They drew upon every happy memory of their childhood, cataloging them as if to delay the inevitable despair. During these tales, Éowyn studied Éomer carefully, and she was reminded of the despair of a small boy who held her quailing body at the news of their father’s death. Who loved Éowyn so fiercely to counteract the indifference of their ailing mother as she gave in to her despair. She remembered his stern resolve, the seedling of a man, aged only 12, who had become the head of his House. Éomer would have made a valiant King. One of the best. Éowyn smiled at that picture. Her big brother, who put toads in her bed and sparred fiercely with their older cousin Théodred with wooden sticks. Who always checked under her bed for monsters, despite her protests of not needing such protection. Whose people loved him and followed him unquestioningly into battle. Who could gentle a fierce stallion or bring trust to a frightened foal. Yes, Éomer would have been a great King.

At last the time arrived to say their goodbyes. Éomer’s gaze kept drifting to the door, but he seemed rooted to her room. Finally Éowyn said “Go. Get some sleep. I promise that I shall wake tomorrow morning to mark your march. I love you brother.”

Éomer came to her and leaned his forehead against hers, a secret sign of affection they’d used since they were children, and kissed her brow. He turned and walked swiftly out of the room, fighting the urge to turn back. When she no longer heard his footsteps, Éowyn sighed and slunked down into her bed. She could no longer fight the sleep, and feared the shadow would force her to break her promise, but she resolved to defeat it yet again tonight. Tomorrow, as today, she would wake, because she had promised him.


	3. Chapter 3

She was back in the Pelennor, darkness all around her. Her uncle was gasping under Snowmane. A scream that brought chills into her soul came from a dark creature standing above her. Its fell beast baring its black teeth and dripping blood-red drool. She clutched for her sword, but found none. Instead, she felt chains, closing tighter around her wrists, pulling her away from her uncle and toward a poisonous cackling. Black furs and stringy hair, with hungry black eyes, Gríma Wormtongue was reeling in his prize. She tried to pull away, her uncle needed her. But Wormtongue was too strong. “A house no greater than common barnyard stock - I am doing you a favor girl, offering to have you and your tainted blood!”

She fought to be released, but the chains had tightened around her arms and were twisting like snakes to encircle her legs and neck. She screamed, but no sound pierced her lips. She couldn’t breath, she was suffocating, and his hands were upon her now, greedily clawing at the fabric of her clothing, scratching her as they went. She could not move, she could not scream, there was no escape from this, the most wretched of fates. Gríma’s breath, the same black breath of that fell beast was now upon her. She made one more effort to scream and move, willing herself with all her might. She must escape...

Éowyn suddenly felt gentle hands upon her and tried to push them away, drawing a sharp painful rebuke from her left arm. She became aware that she was crying out, half in the dream and half in the present.

“Dear girl, you are in the House of Healing. You are safe! You were having a nightmare.” a matronly voice pierced through her delirium and brought the present into focus. Once Éowyn had settled, she felt a cold damp cloth upon her brow, which smelled of evergreen needles.

“Is it yet dawn?” Éowyn attempting to compose her shaking voice, willing the memories of her dying uncle and Gríma’s greedy hands back into the darkness of her subconscious.

“No dear, an hour yet. My you had a fitful sleep! I will be back shortly with a cup of tea and some food. No use going back to sleep with those haunts awaiting you!” with a gentle, warm touch to Éowyn’s cheek, the healer scurried out of the room.  Éowyn recovered her breathing. The host was leaving the city for their march to doom at this very moment.

 _And here I await judgment day_ , she thought.

It was almost too much to bear. Her people were marching away to their doom, led by her beloved brother, and the lord who broke her heart. In this moment, she remembered her mother. Not the warm smile and smothering arms, no. The fading shell of a woman mourning her slain husband. The woman who found herself in a cage, waiting in vain for her life’s purpose to return to her, knowing full well it never would. Her mother’s cage - that was what kept her mother from loving Éomer and she enough to stay alive for them. Then she thought of her uncle, caged by Gríma’s poisonous words, barely aware of the mortal peril his realm was in from Isengard. Despite willing and begging him to come forth from his stupor, Éowyn was fighting a losing battle with the poison of those words. Éowyn was witness to the world’s slowest funeral march, trapped as nursemaid to the slowly rotting corpse of the man who had taken her in as his own when Théodwyn had not loved her children enough to keep living. Perhaps this was the lot of the House of Eorl, their weakness: succumbing to the gray march of sorrow until death claimed them. The despair and shadow crept further toward her heart at these thoughts, leaving her too weak to follow them any farther.

It was now well known in the city of the battle upon the Pelennor between the Witch-king, unslayable by any living man, and herself. Éowyn Wraithbane, Shieldmaiden of Rohan they were now calling her now. She thought that this would bring her joy, knowing that her valour had been recorded, but it left her feeling numb. She persisted - her story did not end with her hero’s death. She had been robbed of that end, instead relegated to her humiliating injuries waiting for the end to arrive. An end that would arrive first with the news that her beloved brother had perished, and then as the wave of darkness would overtake this place, and she would burn inside. Perhaps this end, where the songs of her valour would go unsung, was fitting.

Éowyn simply willed herself to keep her mind blank. Healers came in and out, and she passively allowed them to bathe her, feed her, and change her bandages. She was aware of polite words uttered from her lips to trivial questions such as “how are you feeling?” “does this hurt?” She was not sure how to tell them that everything was numb, because she feared that if she did not force her mind to stay numb, the shadow would overpower her. The House of Eorl was weak. Perhaps Gríma was right on that count.

This will to stay numb continued for what seemed to be days, trading fitful sleep and nightmares for blank days. Then inside something snapped, and she could not live in the white mists of indifference anymore. Out her window, she could see the sliver of sun on the western horizon, toward home and toward the Undying Lands. It carried no warmth to her skin, but blanketed her in its golden rays all the same, willing her to hope. She sniffled, feeling safe enough to let herself feel once again. She wondered where Éomer was, how far the host had marched, if they had yet encountered their deaths. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she violently shook her head to stanch the deluge that was threatening her. No. Not tonight. She would think upon her brother and the host tomorrow morning, she promised herself, letting her heart drift eastward.

_I promise you dear brother, I will wake for you. I will always wake for you._


	4. Chapter 4

Éowyn’s head was below the water of a black river. Her ankle was being dragged by a cold gauntleted hand, and she could hear the shrieking of the Wraith reverberating through the water. She saw her mother, just above the surface, passively watching her as she struggled. Éowyn reached out a hand toward her, urging her to grab it and pull her out. If only she would reach for her… but her mother just continued to watch as Éowyn’s lungs burned, and Éowyn knew she would drown. Cold worked its way into her lungs as the cold metallic hand tightened its grasp and pulled her downward toward the black watery depths.

Éowyn awoke abruptly as her left arm responded to her violent writhing, sending out bolts of sharp pains that reverberated through her nerves. She gulped down the cool air of the Gondorian morning, now no more than a continuous twilight. Unable to suppress the tears of this newest torturous dream, she let them out, guttural sobs overpowering her. She pulled her knees to her chest with her right hand, and rocked back and forth, slowing her breathing in steps and quieting the sobs still collecting in her chest.

_ You are House of Eorl. Wraithbane, killer of that darkest of lieutenants Éowyn _ , she thought as she labored to breathe evenly, feeling her heartbeat slow,  _ and the host and your brother yet live. You will be strong for them. You must be strong for them. _

After her mother’s death, Éowyn had quietly vowed that she would never be caged. She would love her children and would slay all the dragons in the world for them. Would she be able to fulfill her vow? If Éomer did not return, she would either be on the same steps of doom as him, to be burned with the house, or she would return home to lead Rohan. She shuddered at the thought. Without her brother, her memories of Edoras and Meduseld were more bitter than sweet. Her father dead before she was aged 7 years. Her mother fading to a shell the following year, not having enough love for her children to persist in the world. Her uncle taking in Éomer and she, then fading away under the careful poison of Wormtongue. The looks of the men seeing her as a prize of beauty, to collect and dominate. Wormtongue’s slow work to break her. Éomer’s despair at their fate becoming more and more clear. Lord Aragorn, a man who rescued her from her humiliating fate did not even seem to see her as a person, but merely a woman, like her mother. No. This would not do. She was not going to become her mother, slowly weakening to the waves of despair until she disappeared entirely. She was going to be her uncle, a phoenix from the flames in his redemption, dying with valor and praise while delivering the salvation of Gondor.

Éowyn could see the paths laid out before her as they were in Meduseld naught a month ago, and her resolve at what must be done began to harden. She would not fade entrapped in a cage, quietly awaiting her doom. She would blaze brightly in the last moments of glory, as she had desired to do when she rode forth as Dernhelm. She sat up in her bed and called for a healer.

“Lady?” the healer who had gently shaken her out of her nightmare the previous morning popped her head into Éowyn’s room.

“Can you provide me news of the host?” Éowyn’s voice was steady, her resolve was set.

“They are passed the sight of the city Lady, and we lost the dust of their horses a day ago. But I can tell you no more.” the healer’s eyes held concern, having taken notice of Éowyn’s change in tone and interest.

“Then you can give me no more news? I shall like to ride to them and seek my glory there.” Éowyn did not waver, and she did not break eye contact.

The healer shook her head, “I’m sorry lady, but you are in the care of the Warden, and cannot be released without his leave, as you are not yet healed. Indeed, you are supposed to be on bed rest for at least another week. Special instructions.” Éowyn scoffed at this. She suspected she knew who remarked on her weakness and set those special instructions.

“Will my being rested call forth our doom any less quickly? Please take me to the Warden so that I might make my case to him.” Éowyn mustered her most noble and commanding voice, but again was met not with deference from the healer, but understanding. She had decided she did not like this healer. Still, the healer nodded her assent and went to fetch the Warden.

Éowyn would not be an invalid in this House, and pushed herself out of bed with her faltering right arm. With effort she pulled on a robe and placed her feet in slippers. Finally, she combed out her hair as best she could. She was experienced with how to move with an incapacitated arm, having done so on at least two other occasions. She looked in the mirror and saw her eyes, they carried the same haunt that she had seen all those years ago grip her mother. No. She was not going to fade. She was going to light up the night with her glory and her death.

The Warden knocked softly, and with one final check that she was decent, Éowyn beckoned him into her chamber. The Warden’s expression changed when he saw her standing so tall, resolute.  _ Yes, good Warden, the shieldmaiden can stand.  _ She often used her posture to ruffle the men around her, staring their hungry words, intimidated by the tall daughter of the House of Eorl. It was but one layer of her armor.

“My lord, I demand that you release me from your care and let me ride forth with the host. My greatest desire is to die in glory, and your healing touches have only postponed this fate.” Éowyn did not let her speech waver. She did not falter on her words, but spoke with the command she used in important moments. The Warden took one small step back, but he did not retreat.

“My lady, you were on the brink of death when we received you and are only now on the path back to health. Please, we have been asked to take especial care of you, and would heed our instructions.” the Warden also did not drop his gaze. Éowyn posited that they had entered into a fencing match of wills, and reckoned that they were well-matched, “Additionally, you would not be able to catch the host on even the swiftest of steeds. My lady, even were I to deem you healed and ready to seek your adventure, your release is beyond my power to grant.”

“Were I to be confined to my bed, I would fade all the more quickly, in spite of all your efforts to bring me to health, good Warden. My window does not look east, where all of our hope now marches. Idleness will do no more for me than bring about my humiliating death from despair. Is there another whom I may speak my piece to, who does have the power to see me released and able to seek my own destiny?” Éowyn continued not to break eye contact. Her words sharp and precise, probing for weakness in the Warden’s defenses.

His eyes flickered. Éowyn had won this round of wills. “Yes my lady, the Steward of the City would have such a power. He, like you, is a recipient of my care.”

“Bring me to him, if it please my lord.” Éowyn spoke with force, but decided that adding the deference would aid in her goal. She had crossed words with the Warden, and was ready for her next foe. The Warden nodded and bowed, and turned to exit her chamber, beckoning her to follow him. Éowyn’s legs were weak from the many days in bed, and from the despairing poison of the black breath, but she paid them no heed. When they walked through a door into the outside air, Éowyn breathed it in and felt life coming into her limbs. Whomever had ordered her to remain abed for ten days knew her not. Finally she and the Warden crossed an archway into the House of Healing garden. Éowyn flinched as if she had seen a ghost.

A man’s back was to them, statue-still as if he was deep in thought. He was tall, and had raven hair streaming down past his shoulders. He looked like… she could have sworn… but no. Aragorn had gone ahead with the host. This man was perhaps a thumbswidth or two shorter than Aragorn, and his hair was without a trace of gray. He also had a build more akin to an archer than swordsman, with well muscled arms and shoulders, clearly used to having a bow in hand. How was this young man the Steward of Gondor, rather than one who had seen far more winters? As she peered more closely at his form, it became apparent to her that no Rider of the Mark would best him in battle, with sword or bow. Not even her brother.

“My Lord Faramir?” the Warden broke both’s contemplation. “The Lady Éowyn of Rohan would have a word with the Steward of the City about our keeping her here in our House, for she is not content.”

At his words, Faramir turned slowly around, seemingly unphased by the interruption. Then his eyes met Éowyn’s, and for the briefest moments, they faltered. His face was severe but gentle, and his eyes were deep pools of gray. Though few wrinkles lined his face, Éowyn detected sadness in him that was unsettling for one so young. Faramir also wore a sling, in which his left arm gingerly rested. Éowyn did not miss the flicker that crossed Faramir’s eyes, first, a hunger for her beauty, ever-present since she flowered into a woman. But she did not draw back from him in the fear that often accompanied her recognition of a look that feasted upon her form. Faramir’s look of hunger was quickly usurped by another, a look she had only seen cross the eyes of one other man; pity. She wanted no man’s pity. She squared her shoulders for this fight, recovering from being utterly thrown by this unexpected man.

With a nod, Faramir dismissed the Warden. When he turned his gaze back upon Éowyn, it was honest and deep, the hunger and pity now well masked behind a curious regard.

“Do not mistake my complaint for one about my care, my Lord. For I have received the best care that my body could ask for, but I fear that this house cannot cure the truth of what ails me. I do not believe that any living soul could do so, and so I ask for my release to join the host and march to the glorious death that has thus far eluded me. I will wither in this cage if I am left to await my doom.” Éowyn willed each word from her mouth, and each word came with truth and depth. She shivered under his gaze, suspecting he was reading more of her in those words than she intended. But still she did not break his gaze. She watched him as those keen eyes retreated, and saw a recognition cross his face.  _ Ah, Faramir, _ she thought, _ you have now recognized that you are looking upon Éowyn Wraithbane, shieldmaiden of Rohan and slayer of the Witch-King _ . She could not keep the flicker of amusement from her face, imagining all those hungry men cowering at her newfound infamy. She wondered if he’d taken notice of her amusement, and reckoned he had.

“My lady, I am also a prisoner of the healers,” there was no bitterness in Faramir’s voice, but the sadness that she could see so plainly in his eyes had escaped into his words “What do you wish? If it lies within my power, I will do it.”

“I wish you to command the Warden to release me, so I may seek my death and glory.” Éowyn heard the words, but something deep inside her heart tugged at her, and she wondered if she did not doubt her resolve.

As if reading her mind, Faramir replied, “Death and glory may soon come to all of us yet, my Lady, whether we ride out to meet it or no. And you will be better able to face it in your own manner, following the commands of the Healer, to regain your strength. You and I, we must endure with patience these doomed hours of waiting.”

Éowyn gazed at him, marveling at this answer. There was no retort, no words of reason that could move him from his resolve, and yet, Éowyn found peace in his answer. So she was to endure her cage, perhaps not with a keeper, but with a fellow inmate. As if he could read her thoughts, Faramir’s mouth curled into a gentle smile. Not pleased with his victory, no, he was smiling at bringing her a moment of peace in her unease. This unsettled her more.

“The Warden would have me abed for 7 more days,” Éowyn did not know why she was laying plain her frustrations to Faramir, but for some reason, unburdening herself felt freeing, “and my window faces west, when all our hope and doom lays to the east.”

“In these two requests, I can help your cause. I will command the Warden to move your room to one with an eastward facing window. And by my leave, you will walk freely within the House of Healing,” Faramir’s eyes twinkled “I would ask you only this in return Lady: that you remain in our care so that we can see you as close to whole as we are able. And though I do not command this, it would also ease my care if when our paths cross, that you might speak with me and walk with me.”

Éowyn did not break her gaze, but she could feel her cheeks warm at such a forward request from this strange Steward. She was conflicted, did he expect her to thank him by sating his hunger? Her gut told her no, there was more to it. But a flash crossed her eyes of the tainted honey words of Gríma, and she shuddered. Faramir clearly noticed that moment of her unease, but she lifted a finger ever so slightly to stay his words.

“How would I ease your care my Lord? The company that I desire has either accepted the gift of Men or has ridden away to their doom.” As she spoke, she kept a careful watch on Faramir’s face. Gríma’s words had never been able to fool her, and so she marked every twitch of Faramir’s muscles and shift of his eye. She probed his heart with her words. In truth, her statement was not entirely honest. Rumor was that Merry was also recovering in the House of Healing, and now that she was mobile, she desired to seek him out.

“Would you have my plain answer?” Faramir remained steady as he spoke, unafraid of his purpose, but Éowyn could see his right thumb twitch ever so slightly.  
“I would.”

“Then Lady Éowyn, shieldmaiden of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still, but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful. It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon the world, and when it comes I hope to face it steadily, but it would ease my heart, if while the sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back.”

As Éowyn absorbed his words, she retreated into her own mind. His naked honesty had broken through some unheeded barrier in her heart, but Éowyn was not ready to face what that meant. It was too much. Overwhelmed, she replied “Alas, seek no comfort from me Lord Steward! Shadow lies upon me still, and I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle. But I thank you for this at least, that I should not be sequestered to my chamber and owe my freedom to the grace of the Steward of the City.”

Éowyn curtsied and turned quickly away, gliding as fast as her weak legs could carry her, back into the House and to her chamber. She closed her door before any nearby healers could call, and sat on the bed, awash with waves of emotions that her encounter with the Steward had dredged up, and she found herself unable to quench. Faramir. Steward of Gondor had won this round.

Éowyn slowed her breathing again when a gentle knock came upon the door. She froze in place. Had he come to press his advantage? Éowyn trembled. Echoes of muffled footsteps outside her bedroom reverberated in her head. Thankfully, a woman’s voice pierced the black memory, “my lady? I’ve been sent by the Warden to show you to your new quarters. The Lord Steward insisted you have an eastward facing chamber?”

Éowyn recovered, and smoothed her skirt as best she could. She rose, collected herself, and opened the door. Her wizened healer crossed the threshold into her room cautiously, surveying Éowyn’s unease. Éowyn took two more steadying breaths, swallowed down the memories and emotions, and gazed back upon the healer, 

“Thank you… …” it was in this moment Éowyn realized she had not even asked this woman’s name.  
“Ioreth.” the healer answered with a wink, “Our Faramir has that effect on people. I suppose the Warden did not warn you, Lord Faramir has far sight, and can read people just by lookin’ at their eyes.”

Éowyn flushed. She was Éowyn Wraithbane, kinswoman of Kings, shieldmaiden. Not some silly maiden swooning at the sight of a noble of Númenorean descent. No, it was not Faramir’s hungry gaze that unsettled her so, it was his pity. And his boldness. Éowyn collected herself, “Lead on Ioreth. I thank you for your aid. Please also pass my thanks on to the Lord Steward.”

Ioreth nodded and beckoned healing apprentices to gather Éowyn’s effects to move to her new room, leading Éowyn toward the corridor with the east-facing rooms. Éowyn recognized the archway that led to the gardens, but turned her eyes quickly away. Somehow she knew he was still out there. Overwhelmed as she was with Faramir’s attentions, she could not face his gaze again. Instead she looked around her, and saw the open room they were walking through was filled with cots. Injured men filled nearly every cot, and flurries of healers glided between them offering these men comfort and care. She saw men with arrow wounds, those with bandages over grievous wounds from Orc blades, some that looked to be gripped with fever. But witnessing the looks of love and attention in the healers’ faces as they attended those who needed them stirred something in Éowyn’s heart. She flushed it down before she could dwell more upon it. Éomer would have passed the Morgul Vale by now, marching steadily toward Morannon: the north gates of Mordor, to their doom.

Once settled into her new room, Éowyn ate the broth of conies and vegetables gratefully. This was the first day her appetite seemed to have returned of its own accord. She peered out her eastward window, aware of the unnatural darkness that lingered over the mountains. Though she willed her mind to stay to the east with her brother, it kept returning to the raven haired, gray-eyed Steward. 

As if drawn from the echo of Faramir within her mind, a stillness came over Éowyn, and she was confident that were she to let herself, her sleep would be dreamless and the shadow would be held at bay. Éowyn’s eyes fluttered, and for the first time in a long time, she let herself drift to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Éowyn awoke to the feel of gentle hands bustling about her shoulder, glimpsing Ioreth untying her sling. Éowyn caught Ioreth’s eyes, who gave her a wink.

“Good evening Lady! You slept without a fret! I guess that fresh air and new chamber really did you good,” Ioreth smiled “I just need to check how those bones o’ yours are knitting. T’won’t be long.”

Ioreth released the sling’s knot, carefully supporting Éowyn’s left arm, then she unwrapped the tightly wound bandages and strictures to let the arm completely loose. Using her fingers, Ioreth probed the knitting bones with light jabs and caresses. There was still pain, but it was greatly lessened. Ioreth gave Éowyn’s arm an approving nod, having concluded that she was healing nicely, “You’re good to go my girl! Let me add your salve, then rewrap this, and you can start going without the sling for short periods, though I still want it on you most of the time.”

“How long have I slumbered?” Éowyn rubbed a bit of sleep from her eye.

“Only a couple of hours. But you were still as I’ve seen you in here,” Ioreth pulled out a cloth with the pungent smell of medicine, and got to work bathing the skin of Éowyn’s left arm. Éowyn could see the angry yellow and brown bruises, which were soothed by both the salve and Ioreth’s gentle touch. This small moment brought her back to a night when Éomer had a worryingly high fever. She remembered asking the healer if she could help her brother, and had been given an ointment to dab along Éomer’s forehead. She had gently done as bidden, pouring out all her love into the fingers making contact with her brother’s skin. The contact from her fingers had relaxed Éomer’s face, and her heart filled with light to see her touch affect her brother so. That memory stirred the slightest warmth in her stomach. Ioreth had met her eyes again, exchanging with her the briefest recognition of understanding, perhaps not able to read her mind, but certainly seeing that her healing touch had stirred something in Éowyn’s heart. Éowyn gazed again out the window, noting the darkness and wondering if they were now closer to the evening twilight than to noontime. She was awake again.

“Ioreth? Can you please tell me how Meriadoc Brandybuck fares?” Éowyn looked keenly into the old woman’s eyes as Ioreth had begun winding a fresh bandage upon Éowyn’s arm.

“Certainly Lady! That lad has given us naught but trouble since he arrived, caught smoking and sneaking into the kitchens!” Éowyn chucked at Ioreth’s annoyance. Yes, Merry was healing.

“May I see him?” Éowyn looked hopeful. She wanted to tell her Hobbit savior thank you for helping her bring down the fear Wraith, and bring him tidings of his soon-to-be knighthood in the Riddermark.

“I believe he is out in the garden talking with the Lord Steward. They’ve been walking and talking together all afternoon.” Éowyn froze. The twitch of her muscles caught the attention of the seasoned healer, who smiled an aggravatingly understanding smile. 

“Thank you,” were all the words Éowyn could think to say, but she quickly recovered, “Perhaps you could pass a message to Merry for me, inviting him to morning tea in the gardens just past sunrise? I’d also love to have a bath drawn for me tonight after supper. I think the warm water could do my aching muscles some good.”

Ioreth nodded and winked, then left the chamber, quietly closing the door behind her. Éowyn sat frozen in her bed, puzzling out in her mind something that was just beyond her understanding. What was Faramir’s purpose spending the day with Merry? She thought it unlikely that the two had met - perhaps Merry had sought Faramir out for some reason, a favor similar to the ones Éowyn had demanded? Permission to smoke pipeweed in the House of Healing? Éowyn smiled weakly at that, but those explanations did not hit the mark. No. Éowyn’s gut told her the Steward was likely the one who had done the seeking. In order to know more about her.

It was likely that those in the House of Healing understood that Merry fell under the shadow for taking part in Éowyn’s now infamous duel with the Witch-king, and now it was even more likely that the Steward knew that Merry had ridden into the battle with Dernhelm. She wondered how many knew the whole, that Merry had saved her life, and was as instrumental to dispatching the Nazgûl as she was. That Merry’s bravery in the face of the ultimate fear had helped her muster her last bit of courage to smite the Wraith, destroying him with her blow to his head. If Merry wanted to smoke pipeweed, she would march up to both the Warden and Steward once more and demand that it be so. Éowyn allowed herself to smile once more, but warmth was quickly replaced with sadness. The darkness would come, and there would be no minstrels to sing the song of Meriadoc Brandybuck, tallest of Hobbits and bravest of mortals. Slayer of the Witch-king.

_ It seems some brave deeds will forever go unheeded by those with the power to overlook them _ , Éowyn thought, a tear collecting in her eye.

At that, a knock on her door alerted her to her supper. She smiled graciously at the page who served it, though the smile did not make it to her eyes. She waited for the page to leave then started to eat, finding that only having use of her right hand was not befitting an audience. Then suddenly, she scoffed. Her brother was riding to his doom to try to stop the darkness from coming for her and she was thinking of table manners. She would recover enough of her strength to pick up her sword, for Éomer. And so that Merry could have the songs of his bravery sung throughout the land. She would recover. She would no longer be a maid in a tower to be rescued. She was Éowyn Wraithbane, who fought with valor against the darkest of lieutenants, and would do the same in her last stand, never letting fear or darkness overcome her. Éowyn wiggled her left arm, and was sure that the sharp pains had started to abate.

Another knock on her chamber door, and a young healer’s assistant alerted her that her bath was ready. Éowyn followed the assistant out placidly. Facing the darkness with steadiness, that is what she could - no, she  _ would _ do. She watched the healers work with their patients as she walked by, wondering if it was her imagination that the pupils in this place were all seeming less gray today. She walked across the threshold into the bathing chamber, smelling the aroma of her lavender soap, and it occurred to her that another had spoken of facing the darkness steadily that day. Perhaps, rather than being an adversary, Faramir could be her companion, as they waited upon the precipice of doom.

Éowyn sank into the hot water, soothing her aches (though making sure to leave her left arm dry). She thought of the camps talking with Merry as Dernhelm, of the exhilaration and guilt of racing the wind toward Gondor on her loyal steed Windfola. Of admiration of her uncle and brother as they roused the troops night after night, indefatigable in their cries for valor and glory, and how she had wished to remove her helm and declare how much she loved them. She’d been robbed of that chance with her uncle, and hoped her parting with her brother had made clear that her love for him would ride with him to the end of days.

As Éowyn returned to her chamber and dressed for bed, she reflected on those last days leading up to this one. On the scorn Aragorn had shown her in her moment of desperation, his words laced with pity yet little empathy. Of her uncle’s last moments of life, her love of him overcoming the fear that nearly flattened her on the Pelennor. Of Merry’s courageous stand, stabbing the Wraith and giving her both her life and her valor. Of her brother’s whispered words, “I barely bore your death once, and cannot bear it again.”

A last image welled up into her thoughts, that of Faramir’s gray eyes, asking her in earnest for her companionship. She closed her eyes, and the image of the Lord Steward continued to linger, the look of pity his eyes had betrayed, but also the empathy within them. Éowyn reopened her eyes and chanced a final glance toward the east, and thought of her brother, making her nightly promise to wake in the morning and think of him.


	6. Chapter 6

Éowyn was underwater in a black river. No Wraith’s gauntlet dragged her down, but some unquenchable dark force was pulling her deeper. She thrashed her arms, trying desperately to make it to the surface, but something was holding onto her. She looked and saw the white, swollen face of her brother, pleading with her to keep fighting for breath, and Merry, his eyes bulging with terror. She couldn’t save them. She kicked her feet and they released her, sinking down into the darkness. Éowyn tried to scream their names, but no sound came out. She was almost there… only a couple more feet… and there was her mother, just above the water, unmoving, indifferent to her suffering. And there was Aragorn, she reached up for him! Upon seeing her, he turned his back to her and walked away. Despite Éowyn’s efforts to swim upward, she was stalled, unable to advance any closer to the surface, apathetic to her desperate kicking. She begged the passive figures above the water to grab her hand and pull her out. But they did not. So she stopped fighting, and let the darkness take her, to join her brother and Merry in the black abyss.

Éowyn gasped and bolted upright in her bed. She thought she may have cried out, and felt tears stinging her eyes. She had almost given up, almost let the darkness win. Her mother was long dead and Aragorn’s mind was on strategies and wars far above her lot, leading the march to the Black Gates. Éomer was still riding to his doom, but he had not yet reached it. And Merry was in this very House. Éowyn steadied herself once again, breathing deeply. She glanced out her window and saw that through the darkness, she could detect a sliver of light to the east. It was likely not yet sunrise, but almost certainly dawn.

Éowyn focused her mind. Éomer’s laughter. Ioreth’s soothing hands. Lavender in her hair. Merry’s bravery and Windfola’s gallop. Satisfactorily calmed, Éowyn rose and beckoned a healer’s assistant. She wanted a proper dress this morning, to have morning tea in the garden. The assistant brought her a dress so white it seemed spun from moonlight. 

_ That will do, _ Éowyn thought, and with assistance, put it on. She then brushed out her hair, letting it fall free. Éowyn willed the black water from her mind, forcing it into retreat into the dark corridors of her subconscious. A shieldmaiden of Rohan was inviting her noble squire for tea. There was no room for shadows and nightmares. Smoothing her skirt, she exited her chamber and made her way through the House of Healing to the archways of the garden.

She paused on the threshold, sensing before seeing. His raven hair was pulled back into a ponytail tied with a leather strap, and he was looking out to the east. His sling had been removed, and his hands were clasped behind his back, still as he was. Éowyn drew a deep breath, and willed her feet forward. At hearing her breath, Faramir turned to her. His eyes caught sight of her and she watched his composure falter, something flashed in his face upon catching her eyes. Hunger? No, something else. Reverence perhaps. Then pity came again to Faramir’s eyes, and Éowyn could feel her own expression harden upon recognizing it.

Faramir then smiled, an expression that possessed his entire form, from his fingers and toes. Light now shone in Faramir’s eyes, replacing the brief appearance of pity. Éowyn’s hardness yielded the smallest amount, reacting to the joy her presence had just gifted to this man. Éowyn did not smile back, but curtsied, “good morning Lord Steward. I’ve come in search for Meriadoc Brandybuck, Hobbit of Buckland, who is due to be my companion for morning tea.”

“My lady!” a small boisterous voice pierced her heart, and she saw her loyal squire, sitting upon a bench, pipe in hand, and a blanket with tea, cakes, and fruit laid out before him. “I am pleased to have your company, and hoped that we may also invite Lord Faramir to join our party. I shall request more food, for this is but a single Hobbit’s portion!”

“Oh, I do not want to intrude upon this joyous reunion,” Faramir demurred, but Éowyn was not entirely convinced that this was a spontaneous coincidence. Faramir bowed and turned to take his leave. Éowyn caught the apprehensive but hopeful look that passed the Hobbit’s face.

“It would be no intrusion,” Éowyn’s words turned Faramir, and she let her amusement pass through her expression when she met his eyes “Please join us Lord Steward.” At the sight of glee on Merry’s face, Éowyn felt warmer than she was but a moment ago.

The Hobbit popped off the bench and scampered off toward the House of Healing, pipe still in hand. She was alone with Faramir.

“You look radiant, White Lady of Rohan.” Faramir had made his way to her, leaning in so his words were only for her ears.

“One would have assumed that Shieldmaiden, Wraithbane, Daughter of Éomund, House of Eorl were titles enough. I’d not have another added to my burden, but for a chance moment in selecting a dress.” Éowyn tried not to smile, but her eyes’ twinkle gave her away. Faramir smiled and sighed, accepting his admonishment with good grace.

“Shall we, my lady?” he extended his arm to her and led her to Merry’s feast upon the glade.

Upon reaching the blanket, Éowyn realized she would not be able to settle herself down with dignity and grace while her left arm remained in a sling. Faramir seemed to have read her mind, and extended his hand in help. When she took it, she could feel its strength and steadiness, guiding her effortlessly to the ground. There was another curious sensation too, a tingling and warmth she was sure did not emanate from his skin. Éowyn blinked the thought away.  _ He pities you Éowyn. And drawing hope from a man’s pity is what nearly destroyed you. _

Faramir picked up the teapot and poured it into one of three teacups, placing it back on its saucer and handing it to her. Ah, so this was the result of a conspiracy. Again, the amusement flared, picturing the Steward of Gondor and her loyal halfling, heads together, scheming about how to best win her companionship. Unbidden, the vision of Faramir’s straight raven hair turned stringy, his gray eyes became black, and the vision of Merry transformed and became Saruman. Éowyn shuddered.

“I told Merry this was not the best idea, I should not have been so keen to impose my presence upon you,” Faramir broke from Éowyn’s gaze, now concentrating on his fidgeting hands, “Yesterday was the first time that I felt hope that I could become whole.  I was under the Shadow, leading my men in retreat and pouring my will into them to keep moving. I had watched a third of them die and feared that I was doomed to watch many more, and then darkness was upon me. I will not tell you the wretched things I dreamed for fear they may also invade your sleep. But then I saw you, Shieldmaiden of Rohan who slayed the beast of my nightmares, standing proud, refusing to let your sorrow overtake you. You glowed in the dimming light, sorrow and resilience intertwined in your features, and warmth and hope crept into me again, and I wondered if by your strength I could be healed, and perhaps by mine I could heal your sorrows in turn. I was selfish, and I let my desire supercede another’s in my quest to know more of you.”

Éowyn looked at him, and felt a stirring at his naked honesty and vulnerability. How was Faramir different than all the other men who wanted her, when he had admitted his desire to be closer to her had she not shied away, but instead wanted closeness in turn? In these days awaiting doom, her instincts drove her nearer, not farther from him. So she decided, she would heed those instincts. She slid closer to Faramir, “Call me Éowyn. This is not a place for titles. Especially not ‘White Lady of Rohan’!”

Faramir looked at her, sadness giving way to surprise, and then to ebullience, and he let out a laugh. Faramir then smiled, his hope and contentment radiating out every muscle, warming her in turn, “and please call me Faramir... Though if you have use of my title for more east-facing windows or walks amongst the gardens, then it continues to be at your disposal.” Faramir looked down, hesitated, then continued, “Your face upon recognizing our conspiracy… I’d never want to be the cause of such haunts, were I able to avoid it..?”

Éowyn knew the question was more probing than its polite facade would have one believe, but it also occurred to her that Faramir would not have asked it in this way if he were unsure she would recognize its depth. He wanted to temper his boldness, and let her decide what she wanted him to know.

“I was once the prize desired by the most poisonous of schemers. It has bittered the taste of conspiracies for me, even when they are done innocently and with the best intentions,” Éowyn said, voice steady. Faramir’s distressed look confirmed for her that enough had been said. She wondered if Merry had told Faramir of Gríma Wormtongue, though only she and her brother knew the depth of her trauma at Wormtongue’s hands.

Before Faramir replied, Merry had made his way back through the garden, a tray piled high with additional treats. Merry’s expression though was glum, “they took my pipe.” Éowyn and Faramir snorted with laughter, their pregnant silence and understanding broken by the Hobbit’s misfortune. Faramir leaned in and took Merry’s tray, placing it next to the others on the blanket.

“Thank you Merry. Alas, your pipe! Perhaps the healers took it out of care for your shieldmaiden, rather than to punish you.” Faramir’s eyes twinkled.

“The Warden did not take too kindly to me ordering ‘the Lord Steward commands you return my pipe now!’ and told me that the Steward must come to him and ask himself!” at this, Faramir doubled over in laughter again, but just as quickly as it started, Éowyn watched a shadow pass across his eyes. It hit her how young he was to be Steward of Gondor, and suddenly she understood that she was not the only one at this merry picnic whose wounds ran far deeper than those of the flesh.

“I owe my life to Merry’s bravery, I shall not have him go wanting on my account,” Éowyn looked from Faramir to Merry, whose gaze she held, making clear her comment was in earnest, “Faramir, I must call upon the authority of the Steward once more to reunite this brave halfling and squire of the Riddermark with his pipe.”

“My lady! I would not have you take further ill on my account,” Merry looked apprehensive but hopeful.

“I will be just fine so long as I can walk in the fresh air, dear Merry,” said Éowyn, “I also spoke with my brother just before his departure, and we agreed that he will use his new power as King of Rohan to award you knighthood when he returns. He agreed merrily and without hesitation - I suspect this was his first official act as King. We deemed thee Sir Meriadoc the Courageous, soon-to-be Knight of the Riddermark!”

Éowyn was not sure why she told Merry of his impending knighthood, but their doom was but a few days from them, and she would not let her brave Hobbit be robbed of the honor he so deserved if Éomer never returned.  _ Light can shine upon us even in the darkest of times _ , she mused, gazing eastward to the black mists of doom. Faramir had said little during the exchange, as if frozen in place. When Éowyn returned her attention to his gaze, she saw something in them had changed when looking upon her. His pity was wavering before her eyes, but she could not tell what emotion his pity was fighting. Finally, he stirred and slowly got to his feet, “it appears that my duty calls me to recover the pipe of a Knight of the Riddermark, lest we have an international incident.” 

Faramir bowed, turned, and headed into the House. Éowyn watched him leave, admiring the grace with which he carried himself, noting that his gait appeared lighter, less labored. Faramir was finding his health before their eyes. Éowyn’s cheeks reddened as she realized that she was admiring his form. Then a small hand found its way to hers, interrupting her reveries, and she looked into the Hobbit’s eyes, “Thank you lady. I cannot tell you how much your esteem means to me.”

“Merry, my esteem was earned by your exceptional bravery. You alone stood your ground with me against that… that…  _ thing _ . Even if these are the last of our days, your courage shall be renowned in song, if I must drag a minstrel into this House of Healing and sing it myself!” Merry laughed heartily, and squeezed Éowyn’s hand all the tighter, “Now, let’s eat. The appetite of Hobbits is legend, and I imagine these hard-won vittles have been gnawing a hole in your stomach!”

Éowyn let go of Merry’s hand and picked up the tea Faramir had poured for her. She sipped it while marvelling at the speed and efficiency with which Merry was consuming a small platter of grapes and cheeses. Éowyn sighed, feeling the warmth and happiness of this moment pierce her heart. Yes, she would trade her life time and again if it could protect her friends. Doom was coming for her, but she would stand and laugh at it once again, for the valor of Théoden her King, for the love of her brother, for the courage of Merry. And perhaps, for the raven haired Steward too.


	7. Chapter 7

It took Faramir far longer than expected to return to their tea. Éowyn wondered if even the prestige of the Steward of Gondor was no match for the tenacity and protection of the healers. Eventually though, Faramir returned holding Merry’s pipe. Though Faramir attempted to keep his stern face fixed upon Merry, he stole a glance at Éowyn, as if unable to resist looking upon her.

“I must have your word, Meriadoc the Courageous, that you will smoke this pipe only at the far end of the garden, lest the smoke aggravate the healers and patients alike.” Faramir’s twinkling eyes belied his grave words. He kneeled before Merry, presenting the pipe in the palm of his hand.

“You have my word as Halfling of Buckland and squire of the Riddermark. I will take my smoke at the far end of the garden.” Merry matched Faramir’s grave tones, but also his twinkling eyes, and took the pipe from Faramir’s outstretched hand. 

At this, the heaviness of this absurd situation broke, and Merry let out a snort, which crescendoed to full-scale laughter between these two unlikeliest of diplomats. Éowyn smiled, then joined their laughter, and for the first time in a long while, she felt happiness pierce the whole of her. The smile she thought had died forever in those years of being haunted by Gríma, of watching the slow and humiliating demise of her King, of witnessing the impotent despair on her brother’s face. It was a smile that reflected the one she had seen on the Lord Steward, emitting from the depths of her heart to the tips of her fingers. 

As if sensing the betrayal of her joy, her mind fixed upon her brother, marching to his doom and to her uncle at rest in the Citadel. Neither of them would see her smile again, and she felt shame for her momentary happiness when she remembered their suffering. The small hopeful flame that had lit inside her was rapidly extinguished.

She could feel his eyes upon her then, charting all that had just shone upon her face. She met his eyes, fearing that they would again reflect his pity, and so they did, but whatever emotion she’d seen contending against pity was there too.

“Soldiers do not march with lust for blood and glory and battle. Soldiers march for the loved ones they leave behind, so that perhaps those they love may smile again. By denying ourselves that joy, we deprive our loved ones marching to battle their purpose.” Faramir’s words pierced her, and Éowyn reacted.

“Their sacrifice for my joy is no fair trade. I should be amongst them, stern faced and valiant so that the children of Rohan can watch the rise and set of the sun again. My life is forfeit, and my joy is a mockery to their pain.” Éowyn’s voice trembled. She breathed deeply to calm the rising grief that was threatening to overwhelm her. Faramir looked stricken, frozen to his place and unable to break away from her eyes. Suddenly, Éowyn felt the crushing embrace of small hands around her shoulders.

“My lady. My shieldmaiden,” Merry’s voice was heavy with tears, “You who sacrificed your whole for your people. Whose doting care in the face of hopelessness saved your King from a fate worse than death, giving Gandalf enough time to make him whole. You whose laugh broke the Witch-king and restored courage to the heart of your men in their moment of greatest despair. You who took pity on this Hobbit and brought him into the fold, to ensure that everyone who wanted to protect our loved ones and could wield a sword would be able to do so. If there are any in this world worthier of joy than Éowyn of Rohan, I shall eat my pipe.”

Merry would not relinquish Éowyn, and as she struggled, she finally broke. One tear became many tears became whimpers became sobs. Her black thoughts asserted themselves: her mother’s disdain, her brother’s pain, her cousin’s fate, her uncle’s deterioration, redemption, then death, Gríma’s poison, Lord Aragorn’s blank pity as he turned and walked away from her. She did not deserve joy. 

Éowyn felt disgusted with her weakness. She tried unsuccessfully to swallow down the grief that had swelled so powerfully. Merry’s grip persisted, willing her to see herself as he did, pouring his own love and lightness into her, drawing away poison which had lain in her veins far longer than the black breath. With Merry’s love, Éowyn began to win her battle with her grief. Her breaths began to steady, and her tears abated. Cracks had formed in her heart’s encasement, and she could feel her love for Merry take root.

“I’ll be back my lady.” Merry uttered. His grip loosened, and when he finally let her go, and he dashed from the garden.

“Éowyn,” she started at the use of her name, and looked up. Faramir’s gaze was fixed upon her, and she noticed extra tears in his haunted eyes, and his hands were clasped at his knees, “Just before I left on my last mission, my own father told me he wished my brother and my place had been exchanged. That I had died and Boromir had lived.”   
Faramir paused, and Éowyn could see him take deep breaths, willing himself to continue, “I am not supposed to know this, but in his last moments, my father tried to burn us both alive. But for a miraculous intervention of Mithrandir, Beregond, and Merry’s kinsman Pippin, he would have succeeded, and I would have burned in that accursed tomb. I wonder often... How different would these dark days had been if he had gotten his wish, and Boromir were here instead of me? Perhaps our fates would have been brighter were I the one beyond Arda now.”

The hollow sorrow echoed through Faramir’s words. He had drawn his legs up to his chest and held his knees. Éowyn did not see the lordly Steward of Gondor in that moment, but instead a small boy. Éowyn’s heart was stirred, and she felt pity for him.

As if a light had been turned on in the darkness, Éowyn understood. They shared a kindred sorrow, seeing each other’s pain reflected in the other. Faramir’s far sight must have meant he saw into her soul far before she saw into his, but there it was. Éowyn slowly reached out her hand, stretching toward him, then hesitating, for it was improper for a woman to offer such intimate comfort to a male stranger.  _ To hell with decorum _ , she thought, and gently brushed her fingers across hands, then surrounded them in her own steady grasp.

“It seems to me that poor Merry should be destined to eat his pipe,” she said, “For I cannot imagine a man more deserving of joy than you Faramir.”

Faramir did not look at her, and she could feel him trembling below her touch. She tightened her grip at this, willing him to see in himself that which he had recognized so easily in her. Suddenly she became aware of their touch, their closeness, and flickers of both thrill and apprehension crossed her heart.  _ No. He needs me and I will not pull away from him. _ Faramir finally lifted his head to meet her gaze, and there was fire there, and fear. Éowyn nearly faltered, her touch upon his hands burning with the fire of his gaze, but still she would not pull it away. He still needed her touch, and that meant more than fleeing the building electricity that was propagating out from where their skin was making contact. Hurried footsteps broke their building tension, and their touch. Merry was returning. 

Before Merry had made it within earshot, Faramir whispered “Perhaps we can declare a stalemate so that poor Merry is not destined to eat his pipe.”

Éowyn smiled, and she let the light of her momentary comfort travel through her veins, “what have you got there Merry?”

Merry opened the the small brown package in his hands, revealing a dozen small brown lumps, “black truffles, from Saruman’s store. I was saving them for… for me and Pip... but I think that this may be the right moment.”

A grave understanding passed between the three of them. Doom might take them, but they each allowed themselves a little joy, led forth by the brave Hobbit. The three spent the rest of the day in the gardens, trading stories of joy, though the conversation was dominated by Merry. Morning turned to day and tea and breakfast turned to wine and lunch, and Merry spoke of the trouble he would get Pippin into through simple suggestion. Of being chased out of kitchens by mothers and aunts and uncles. He spoke of sneaking to Bag End to enjoy Hobbiton ale with Frodo and hear stories from Bilbo’s mad adventures. He told of Gandalf’s fireworks and Frodo’s quiet maturity. Of Sam’s crush on Rosie Cotton. He told of the marvel of the Lady Galadriel and of the unparalleled beauty of Arwen Undomiel, her grand-daughter. He spoke of Rivendell and of Elrond’s healing powers, of the joy of seeing Gandalf again under the protection of Treebeard. Éowyn and Faramir sat quietly listening to Merry’s masterful storytelling, laughing with him and smiling with him. Suddenly Merry froze in the midst of telling the story of angry Caradhras.

“Boromir and Strider fought all night to dig us out of the snow, often carrying two Hobbits a piece down the pass toward Moria...” sorrow showed in Merry’s downcast eyes. Suddenly he looked up at Faramir intensely, “Did Pip tell you that your brother saved our lives? He fought for us so bravely, outnumbered and knowing his end had come. Six arrows were not enough to fell that great man. The Uruks had taken and bound Pip and me, you see. But Boromir blew his horn with all his might, six arrows… and we’d be dead if Strider, Gimli and Legolas had not found out we had been captured.”

Faramir looked stricken, but Merry’s hand found his and Éowyn recognized the immense will of the small Hobbit filling Faramir with light. She marveled at Merry’s strength. She grabbed the glass of wine and called “to Boromir.”

“To Boromir,” the others followed her in kind, and all three drank deeply to the memory of a man brave and noble. Éowyn smiled at a realization then: Boromir had saved Merry, who had in turn saved her, and Boromir had saved Pippin, who in turn had saved Faramir. All three sitting there owed their lives to this man. She smiled,  _ thank you brave son of Gondor. I hope you are happy in the place beyond Arda. I will take care of these two with my last breath should the darkness descend. _

Éowyn chanced a glance at Faramir, and saw the dark shadows in his eyes. For the second time that day Éowyn reached out to take Faramir’s hand, but found that Merry’s hand had beaten her’s to it. Merry must have noticed the shadows too.

“He went because of me. Because of the… dream. I’d had it nearly a dozen times. Then one day, he had it too.  Seek for the Sword that was broken: In Imladris it dwells; There shall be counsels taken, Stronger than Morgul-spells. There shall be shown a token, That Doom is near at hand, For Isildur's Bane shall waken, And the Halfling forth shall stand.  
I was preparing to journey to Rivendell to seek an understanding of the dream when he usurped me. He claims it was because it was dangerous and it was his responsibility as the eldest son, but I think perhaps it was also because he always sought to protect me. I was his baby brother. And so I let him go, against both my and my father’s wishes.” Faramir glared through both of them, to some point in the distance, “I have not lived a single day since that day that I have not wondered if it would be different if I had gone in his stead.”

“Pip and I would probably be dead and defiled,” Merry solemnly replied.

“My land would have been overthrown by Saruman’s hordes, and Gríma probably would have claimed me,” the words were out of Éowyn’s mouth before she realized what she had said. The shock of her admission reverberated through the picnic. There was a ringing in her ears. Gríma was on top of her, holding her down. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Gríma’s voice and tongue were in her ear, ‘you cannot stop me, vile girl. You are mine now.’ Éowyn cast her eyes about her, desperately looking for something that could anchor her and bring her back to the present. Faramir and Merry’s horrified faces were coming in and out of focus, traded for images of Wormtongue and straw. But even their eyes before her were unable stop the images that had invaded her mind. Both of their eyes were on her, but she was no longer in the garden.

“Éowyn, are you okay?” the voice was Faramir’s but it sounded distant.

Golden light was streaming through stable windows. She couldn’t breath, greedy hands were on her neck. 

“Éowyn?” his voice was now urgent, but also clearer. Éowyn fought as hard as she could to focus on Faramir’s eyes.  _ They are not Gríma. You are in the House of Healing. He is not Gríma. _ She could feel her heart pounding, and could feel Merry’s hand now on her’s. She was returning to the present, and the intensity of her hallucinations abated. At the frightened looks on her companions’ faces. the disgust at her weakness returned to her. She needed to run away. So she pulled herself up from the ground, ignoring the cry of pain from her left arm, and rushed away from them, out of the garden and through the archway.

Éowyn did not pause her progress until she had made it back to her chamber. She sat down abruptly on the edge of her bed, and started to cry. The upwelling was starting, today she had opened her heart too much, and could not hold in the sorrow that was pleading with her for freedom. The darkest secrets she had locked so deeply into her subconscious had festered and were starting to emerge, and would be denied no longer. She was not ready for this, she was not ready for this pain when she needed to be strong for her brother. Darkness would surely claim her if she let herself feel the ugly things she’d pent up inside for so long. Faramir and Merry had woven some powerful magic upon her, dropping her defenses enough to burrow in. Yet to open up to them felt so good. There was joy in it. But it wouldn’t last, and it would weaken her. It already had, for she was weak. She had to stop it. She was not ready to let others see her pitiful vulnerability, witness her reliving those vile moments that she suppressed with every breath and thought. That was why she had closed her heart, was it not? Éowyn wiped the tears out of her eyes and collected herself. The smallest of knocks on her door drew her attention, and she opened it. Faramir stood in front of her, white as a sheet. 

“You left this,” in Faramir’s hand was her slipper, which had fallen off her foot in her flight, “And I don’t think you are weak.”

Faramir handed the slipper to her, and turned to go. Éowyn looked at it, then at him. The ringing in her ears was gone. Faramir’s voice and Merry’s touch had drawn her back. Understanding steadied her panic, she was not destined for the shadow while she was in this place and had the companionship of Merry and Faramir. They would catch her should she begin to fall again.

“Thank you.. Faramir,” Éowyn tried to convey the depth of that gratitude in her voice. Faramir had paused his retreat, and Éowyn was certain she saw the tension between his shoulder slackened just the slightest bit, “Perhaps… I will see you again tomorrow? I plan to watch for the sunrise from the garden, to think on my brother.”

Faramir turned and looked back at her. The slightest smile came upon his face, and he nodded, “I should be glad of it, Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan.”

With that, Faramir turned again and walked back out the corridor. Éowyn felt a flame ignite in her heart. She could not fight this, opening and sharing her burden today had given her comfort and relief, even as the tidal wave had threatened to drown her. The fights with those memories seeking to overpower her could not continue to overwhelm her. It was time to let others in, so that here on the cusp of doom, she could face the shadow with an open and healed heart. Éowyn closed the door to her chamber, and decided she would attempt to sleep. All other matters could wait until tomorrow.


	8. Chapter 8

Éowyn had expected the usual fitful sleep full of Witch-kings, stringy-haired black-eyed men hunting her, and black rivers, but she awoke without a cry. She looked around, not quite dawn. She arose from bed and beckoned to one of the healer’s assistants to find Ioreth and help her dress. In waiting, Éowyn grabbed her brush and pulled it through her hair. She wondered at this lack of dark shadows upon her sleep. Gray eyes and raven hair caressed the surface of her subconscious, but she shook the thought out of her mind.

Ioreth bustled in, “I understand the lady calls for me? Let me guess, you should like to escape your sling a day early.” she winked. Éowyn nodded Once Ioreth said it, Eowyn wanted it. Ioreth carefully removed Éowyn’s sling, then unwrapped her bandages. She seemed to approve heartily of Éowyn’s arm’s condition, because she nodded, “I will still want to bandage it and apply your salve, but my dear, I think we are good to let you start using it again - gingerly.”

Éowyn glowed with the release of her hand, she was nearly whole! As if sensing her thoughts, “but you are not to use this arm for any sort of swordplay my dear. I daresay you shouldn’t be lifting naught but a teacup with it for a few days yet.”

Ioreth applied the pungent salve and rewrapped her bandages. As she finished, the healer’s assistant came in with another white dress. Éowyn smiled wryly,  _ I shall not escape my new nickname if they keep dressing me as if I walked down from the Moon. _ But she nodded her approval and let the two women dress her. 

“Ioreth?”  
“Yes, my dear?”  
“Do you think that my arm has healed sufficiently for me to plait my hair unaided?”  
“You won’t know unless you try! And you may try, but I should like to supervise.”

Éowyn smiled, and tried holding her hair with her newly liberated left arm. She could feel the pain from disuse, but there were no sharp pains from strain or injury anymore. So Éowyn slowly braided her hair, under Ioreth’s watchful eye.

“My girl, one would think you sprang from the blood of Númenor given how fast you’re healing!” Ioreth put her hands on Éowyn’s cheeks, beaming at her.

“I should think that the miracles you work in this place have played their part as well! I look forward to singing your high praises in Rohan, should I ever get to see my home again.” Éowyn and Ioreth shared a grave look. Ioreth then pinched her cheek, bowed, and hurried out of the room, no doubt to attend her other charges.

Éowyn breathed in the air, put on her slippers, and headed out toward the gardens. She kept her pace relaxed, so she could marvel at this place. She wanted to absorb the warmth of the healers around her, to see masters of their craft bringing the sick and ailing back to health. It was engrossing, and with her opening heart, Éowyn started imagining her own hands upon the brow of the man recovering from his fever. Clasping the hand of a soldier and telling him of the valor that his new scars announced. It was also in this moment that she realized the number of eyes upon her, some with hunger, but mostly, she saw reverence. She smiled,  _ Ioreth and others have been talking about tending Éowyn Wraithbane, I reckon. _ It did not help matters that the dress they had chosen for her had given her an unearthly glow in the rising twilight. She grinned, and realized the choice for her dress was probably intentional. The glowing White Lady of Rohan indeed.

Upon making it through the garden archway, she instinctively knew that he would be waiting for her. And so he was. Faramir’s back was to her, facing east. Éowyn softened her footfalls, attempting to slide next to him as quietly as possible. But Faramir smiled and looked at her moments before she had made it to his side.

“The fabric of your dress rustles when it makes contact with itself.” Faramir looked back east, answering her unasked question, “You also smell of healing salve, and your hair - it smells of... lavender.” he coughed, then as if needing to justify his attentions, added  “a Ranger of Ithilien’s most valuable weapons are his senses.”

“Perhaps one day you might teach me those skills.” Éowyn could nearly hear the pounding of her heart, thinking upon the many moments she had listened with all her might for muffled footsteps when she walked alone through corridors of Meduseld. She hoped that Faramir’s senses weren’t keen enough to mark it. Éowyn then looked eastward, and her thoughts immediately found her brother, “It has been five days since they started their march. Pray tell Faramir, where do you think my brother and the Lord Aragorn are right now?”

“They’re marching along the Mountains of Shadow through North Ithilien. I’d wager they’ll be marching near to Cair Andros today. They have two days march yet before reaching the black gate. I’ve been given no news, so I believe that they continue to make their progress unchallenged. Cair Andros would be… there.” Faramir pointed to the ridgeline of black mountains, and Éowyn sidled closer to him to better see where he was pointing, “I wish you’d have gotten to see Ithilien. It is one of the fairest places in Middle Earth, full of lush fields and beautiful woods. High mountains and lush valleys. There are scores of waterfalls coming off the mountains, some with blue pools of water just beneath them. Some only a few know exist, and fewer still have knowledge of the sure path to them. Should we ever see the end of this darkness and return of the King, that is where I would make my home.”

Éowyn and Faramir were now leaning against one another, his left shoulder to her right. Éowyn’s heart continued to pound, though not from dark memories. She felt his warmth and steadiness in that minute contact with him, and perceived the rapidity of her heartbeat.

“Would your service as Steward be completed then?” Éowyn asked

“I reckon so. With the King returned, there is no need for the ruling Stewards. I will never forget his voice drawing me forth, and I will gladly relinquish the rule of this land to him.” Faramir had tensed slightly at her side, but did not draw himself away, she wondered if his heartbeats reflected her own, “My father and brother did not believe that we should give in so easily should the King return, but since I was a small boy, I dreamed of that day. A return to the glorious days of old, perhaps Gondor would return to its former splendor and I would get to witness it.”

Faramir sighed, and Éowyn sensed his hope. He had not given up that this darkness would pass and the shadow would be defeated. He had a faith in Lord Aragorn that Éowyn wanted desperately to share, but any moment that she thought of Aragorn felt as if shards of ice had pierced her heart. The sick feeling of sorrow returned, and she relived that fateful morning when she begged Aragorn to let her go with him, and watched him turn away from her and not look back. She remembered her retreat to her private quarters, and visions of Gríma’s hands on her neck and poison in her ears had sprung forth, unquellable. She was but a woman. A truth on which both the basest of villains and the highest of men agreed, and she knew that she would never be seen as something more. Only in her hopeless despair did the numbness return, allowing her to decide that her death was the only way to escape the cage she was condemned to, her only companions the black memories that menaced her soul.

Sensing this change in her mood, Faramir turned toward her, studying her carefully.

“A high and mighty King he will be.” Éowyn forced the words from her mouth, and there was a truth to them, but they sounded stale, rehearsed for just this moment. Suddenly, she couldn’t stand Faramir’s touch, so she drew herself away. It was enough. Faramir’s gaze did not relent, but Éowyn could see its steadiness falter, and sensed the self-doubt that welled up in his eyes.

Éowyn was not ready to give up this moment with the Steward, nor was she ready to reveal to him the moment of her greatest despair, left on her knees to the fate of her sex, by a man who returned her love and admiration with pity and apathy. So she closed her eyes and willed that dark day away, casting about to find a memory that did not fill her with grief, and found one.

“My favorite place was always the eastfold in the winter. My uncle would take us when we were older to some of the passes, and my brother and I would drag sledges up the hills and race down upon them. The snow was beautiful. It always reminded me of new beginnings, covering the scars upon the mountains with its beauty. Éomer and I would go on evermore dangerous trails, trying to outdo the other until one or the other of us ended up with sprains, broken bones, or gashes that would turn our caretakers white. Boy could I get him into trouble! You would not believe the thrashing he got the time I broke my wrist having followed him down a narrow ravine! My uncle was livid for a week.” the light of this moment did not fully erase the dark, but she felt warmer.

Éowyn and Faramir shared a smile, and Éowyn returned to leaning against him, and they both looked back east. Eowyn’s contact with Faramir’s warmth was enough to make the black memories fade away, and Éowyn found herself thinking of sledding down the snow, chasing after her brother, but her brother suddenly had raven hair. She thought of swimming in hidden pools and roasting fish on a fire under the stars, holding each other and whispering on those dark nights when fear filled her. These were but fantasies though, and surely darkness would rip them all away.

“You still have hope.” Éowyn suddenly interrupted her own contemplation.  
“I do.”  
“What brings you that hope?”

Faramir paused, as if thinking through his response very carefully, “remember the dream I told you of?”  
“Yes”

“Well, it’s as if I know that it will come true. The tide of war is shifting because the enemy overlooked those he deemed unworthy. The day I was told about how you and Merry slew the Witch-king, that was the day I felt the first hope. Hobbits are remarkably resilient to the shadow, something that only the wisest amongst us seemed to have noticed. A quality about Merry moved you the day that Dernhelm rode forth to Gondor, for you scooped Merry up and in so doing delivered the worthiest brother in arms onto the very field on which you were destined to slay the creature thought to be unslayable. A halfling came forth and proved his worth a hundredfold” Faramir looked down upon her, and Éowyn realized she would never see pity on his face again, for it was replaced by reverence, and the fire now kindled between them. Faramir then continued, “There is more to this story, but I’m afraid that I cannot share it with you until we are on the very precipice of doom, for I fear even here my uttering of it could undo this path we are walking.” 

Éowyn would have liked to know more, but Faramir’s words left her at peace, for she knew that he would tell her. Éowyn turned back east and pressed her thoughts toward the ridge that Faramir had pointed to, willing her brother forward.  _ Fear not, dear brother. You are loved, and your sister has now experienced moments of respite that you so wished for her. I will wait for you, or I will fight for you, whatever our fates. _ With that, Éowyn gently touched Faramir’s arm, then turned toward the House of Healing, ready for a bite of breakfast and some tea. Before she had made it halfway to the archway, Éowyn stopped and turned around.

“Would you care to join me for morning tea Faramir? I am headed in to ask to have something light prepared, and think that I’d like to take it in the garden, as we did yesterday.” Éowyn quickly added “Perhaps I will also extend the invitation to Merry, once he finds his way past his slumber.”

Faramir smiled again from his whole person, “I should be glad of it, Éowyn.”

Éowyn had finally accepted the love in her heart for the little Hobbit, and each moment she spent with Faramir drew her closer to him. Less than three days until the final battle, and she had found companions that lifted her from her darkness. She would not shirk a gift such as this if these three days were meant to be her last.


	9. Chapter 9

Éowyn’s visit to the healer’s assistant was brief, asking again for light fare for morning tea suitable for the Lord Steward and herself, but to also prepare for the arrival of a hungry Hobbit. Another of the healer’s assistant’s had called upon Merry, who had appeared suddenly with a wide smile on his face. Merry bowed low upon seeing Éowyn, then his effort at formality broke and he strode up to her and took her hands in his.

“The honor at receiving your invitation my lady… it moves my heart, though not nearly as much as your smile.” Merry looked at her and squeezed her hands more tightly. Éowyn understood his whole meaning. Then with a start, Merry stepped backwards.

“They’ve removed your sling!”  
“Yes! Though I have been made to promise to use it gingerly, or suffer the wrath of the healers.”

With that, Merry and Éowyn strolled hand in hand out into the garden, and found Faramir sitting on a blanket on the ground, leaning back against a tree, waiting for them. As the two had made their way to the spot, Faramir sprung to his feet to help Éowyn to the ground, using both hands to brace her right arm and gently guiding her down onto the blanket. The tingling at the point where they touched again caught Éowyn’s attention, and she wondered if Faramir felt it too.

No sooner than the trio had settled did the tea and plates of cheese, breads and fruits materialize. It appeared that the House of Healing had taken heed of the imminent arrival of the Hobbit, as an extra platter of cakes was also brought for them.

“What a merry bunch we are here awaiting our judgment day,” Éowyn said wryly. She could not help but let her thoughts become serious “I still can’t help but feel guilt for this smallest of good fortunes when our loved ones are facing danger and sadness.”

“What do we defend if not the joy of others?” Faramir began pouring them tea, he then leaned in close to Éowyn’s ear, and spoke softly, “and you and I have had enough sorrows to deserve this small respite.”

Faramir did not immediately lean away, and when Éowyn met his eyes, she sensed that Faramir was reflecting upon his own black memories. Éowyn’s left hand reflexively found its way to Faramir’s hand, and she placed it upon his. She looked intensely at him,  _ you can trust me with your sadness Faramir. _ As if understanding, Faramir opened his fingers to embrace her’s. A small cough broke their reverie, and both looked to see the smuggest of smiles upon Merry’s face. Their hands broke apart, and Éowyn picked up her tea, noticing the saucer underneath it trembling. Just her weak left arm, that was all.

“Tell us of Rohan,” Faramir said, the faintest quiver still present in his voice.

“Rohan?” Éowyn smiled, for it was her turn to tell the stories of her childhood. She spoke to Merry and Faramir of the spring melt when small yellow flowers would fill the fields and make her sneeze. She told of her brother’s skill at finding wild strawberries before the birds and beasts could claim them. Of the ice cold water in the rivers that rushed from the mountains, whose caps of snow never fully disappeared. She told of the first time she galloped a horse. Of picking up sticks and sparring with Éomer, who almost always let her win. Of the rustic magnificence of Meduseld when her family went to visit her uncle and cousin, and how it became her home.

At the thought of Edoras, Éowyn paused. She could feel the black memories just under the surface.  _ Perhaps it is time to see how much my heart can endure. _ She sighed.

“My father died when I was 7, slain by Orcs. He’d given me my first pony, Featherfoot, just before he’d left, promising that he would show me how to ride her when he returned. He never did. I remember the messenger so clearly, bringing the news to my mother. She trembled and fell to her knees right there, then sobbed through the night. Éomer and I stayed together that night, just listening to her. I don’t know when she went quiet, perhaps sometime near dawn, after Éomer and I lost our battle with sleep.” Éowyn could feel tears burning her eyes, and she was there in that terrible memory, but still too she was in the garden with Merry and Faramir, so she continued, “My cousin Theodred came for us the next day, to take us all to Meduseld. He asked me if I wanted to ride with him. I said no, I would ride by myself. He must’ve known something, because he put my little pony on a lead, but then let me climb on. My first ride. My father would never be there to teach me.  
My mother never said another word. We came and showed her magic tricks that Theodred taught us. I tried to show her my new saddle for Featherfoot. Éomer and I even quarreled just to try to get her attention, but it was for naught. She just… faded. She had loved my father, and when he died, so did she.”

Éowyn’s mind saw her mother’s diminishing gray form. She remembered her uncle going to her mother’s room and begging her to eat, to talk, he cajoled her with stories of their childhood, but she was already gone. Éowyn could not recall the day that her mother actually died in body, because by then she was merely a ghost. That year had nearly stolen every good memory Éowyn had of her mother, leaving only the smell of her hair - lavender.

“I have but one happy memory with her left - me running into my mother’s arms. It is strong because I can remember so clearly that her hair smelled like lavender. I always carry lavender with me. I know that if I need to remember the time that my mother loved me, I can draw it forth just by smelling some…” Éowyn trailed off. Tears streamed freely from her eyes, but she did not break. Suddenly she was aware that her hands were intertwined, on either side. One felt the electric warmth of Faramir, and the other felt the soft but firm comfort of Merry.

“That is why your hair smells of lavender,” Faramir’s eyes were wide, “To remember your mother’s love.”

“She did not love us enough to stay alive for us, but there was a time in my life that she had enough love left in her heart to share it with me. I often put lavender in the letters I sent to Éomer when he was on patrol, because I think he remembers her smell too.” Éowyn continued to let her tears flow freely, and felt the poison of her shell of a mother being drawn out by the caressing touches of her two companions. Her heart had survived its trial. It would survive more, but for now, she was exhausted.

“Perhaps later this afternoon, we can talk more of Rohan. But for now, I think I’m spent,” Éowyn wanted to thank them for their strength, but recalling the pain of that time in her life had left her weakened, unable to utter her appreciation.

“My lady, I do believe that is because it is past lunchtime and we have not eaten!” Merry looked scandalized, “Shall I ask for them to send for some lunch?”

“I think we might all do a bit better with a brief rest and recovery,” Faramir looked at Éowyn, voicing what she had felt too guilty to say, “I have been delaying a meeting on the status of the city that I am loathe to take, and must finally do so. Perhaps by the Warden’s word about my fragile health, it will be mercifully brief. Here’s hoping the affairs of Gondor in this age of darkness shan't take all afternoon.”

Faramir rose and offered his hand to Éowyn, who accepted it. Once upon their feet, Faramir bowed and headed into the House of Healing. Merry looked only slightly crestfallen.

“Perhaps you can take your smoke whilst your companions are attending to other affairs Merry? I should ask if you’d consider writing the tales of your bravery into a record, so that even if we do not overcome the darkness, the record persists?” Éowyn knew that while gentle, she was rebuffing his silent plea for her companionship, but she genuinely would have loved to read the tales of Meriadoc the Courageous and his adventures through Middle Earth. And she was so very tired.

Merry smiled, then bowed to her, and walked back into the House. Éowyn glanced east to the mountain ridge one more time,  _ dear brother, I will always love you and hope your bravery prevails. _ With a swift turn, she made her way back to her room.

Éowyn indeed ate a light lunch, hoping for afternoon tea with her companions. She then called to have a bath drawn. She would ask if they could re-wrap her left arm, because she wanted to feel the renewing power of the warm water upon it. Once the bath was prepared, Éowyn let her entire body sink underwater, feeling the pure bliss of finally washing her left arm on her own. She knew the healers had cleaned it, but there was something therapeutic about baptising it in water herself, cleaning the last remnants of that cursed battle and filthy creature off of her.

When Éowyn surfaced, she found her lavender soap and rubbed it vigorously into her hair. The memory of her mother’s love filled the chamber, and she felt lifted. Speaking of her pain to her companions, opening her heart, had begun to heal her heart, something she did not believe was possible. Then a thought seized her, what if she had overburdened them with her sad thoughts? She would have to make sure that she offered them her comfort in kind, as she had found her’s with them.

Éowyn emerged from the bath and put on her robe. She walked barefoot back to her room, but stopped abruptly at her door. A large bundle of dried lavender lay before her, tied with a leather strap. Éowyn kneeled before it and felt a warm flush come over her body. She carefully picked up the lavender and continued inside.


	10. Chapter 10

Éowyn called a healer to re-dress her bandages and re-apply her salve, but decided that she wanted to dress herself for the afternoon. The healer obliged and left her to her efforts.

_ It can’t be that difficult _ , Éowyn thought, studying the flowing white gown provided by the healers. She slipped into the dress with ease, but found that she was unable to do up the buttons with only her right hand, so gave in and called a healer’s assistant back. As the buttons were done, Éowyn stared at the lavender she had placed on her bedside table. The leather strap had given her mysterious benefactor away, likely as he had intended. How had Faramir found lavender, a valuable enough herb when land was fertile and herbs were plentiful, during this time of strife and on such short notice? And why had the Steward done something this…  _ thoughtful _ for her? Éowyn doubted that his gift was that of a Steward wanting the best for his noble guest of Rohan. No. They were but days away from death and doom. Perhaps Faramir wanted to make sure that when the end finally found her, Éowyn could find comfort in her last moments. And yet… something in her gut whispered that this gift was something else,  _ a token _ .

Éowyn had believed upon meeting Aragorn that she knew what a woman’s love for a man was. It was as in the tales of old, the maiden in the tower always falls for her rescuer. It was believing that to be touched and loved by greatness, she would attain greatness too. It was reaching out to touch the sun in awe of its brilliance. It was the hurt of feeling its burn. It was opening up to the idea of hope and watching it dashed as awe was met with pity. It was not being seen as whole, but as a girl with a crush and little understanding of the world. It was trading the cage of a daughter for the cage of a nursemaid and ward for the cage of a devoted wife. It was the devotion her mother showed to her father by fading away when her love was no longer needed by him.

That notion of love was but a small piece of what it could be. Did her brother not love her as one he had known through bruises and sledge races and the deterioration of their uncle? Did she not love Merry as her kin, seeking comfort in his smile and laughing at his stories, and pledging her life to protect his should their darkness come? None of the notions she had of love fit how she felt about Faramir. She did not love him as kin as she did Éomer and Merry. Thinking upon him did not feel so remote as it had when she dreamed of Aragorn and his glory. It felt familiar, and yet alien. As if she were not trying to touch the sun, but instead sit and warm herself by a fire. When she touched Faramir, she did not want it to end. When he looked at her with fire in his eyes, she could not look away. She wanted to soothe what pained him, and his pain was what most quickly drew her to touch him. But it was not compassion that held her hand to his, or locked their gaze, it was something more.

“All done Lady!” the healer’s assistant curtsied and broke Éowyn away from her thoughts. Éowyn smiled and thanked the girl, then looked upon herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were pink, her hair billowed down to her waist, the white dress she was wearing glowed.

_ The White Lady of Rohan comes forth _ , she thought, and slipped her feet into her slippers. She picked up the lavender and breathed it in deeply, catching a hint of the leather strap,  _ alas, now leather will always remind me of you Faramir. I imagine that was your intent. _ A smile arose radiated across her face.

Éowyn left her chamber, and glided with as much grace as she could into the large room. She was intent to make it to the gardens, but stopped. She looked around again at the healers and their charges, and made a decision. Éowyn turned and walked to the Warden’s office, trying to project the grace of the Eldar as the many ailing inhabitants followed her course. Once there, she knocked.

“Yes? Come.” the Warden called, so Éowyn opened the door. The Warden twitched upon seeing her, but recovered quickly, “Lady Éowyn, what brings you to my offices this afternoon? Surely you are not to ask me again to release you-”

“No, good Warden. I would not be able to catch the marching company were I to tame and ride a dragon, and my wounds are not yet fully healed. And as we are on the precipice of doom, I should like to face it as close to whole as I can. But I should like to ask you in this time of greatest need, if I can be of service to this place. I cannot explain it, but I feel called to do more here than be a patient. If time permitted, I might even ask if I may become an apprentice and learn these hallowed arts.” Éowyn smiled at his look of surprise, “Surely there are healers here that might be able to use an extra set of hands… well, hand, at least for the moment. And I am happy to use my newly won reputation to try to bring light to those who despair.”

The Warden smiled, and apprehensively nodded, “I am sure that your help would be of great import in this hall Lady Éowyn! But seeing that you are still in my care, I must ask that you start lightly. I shall speak with Ioreth about having you assist her for a while each day, when you are most rested. I deem that the light you shine upon this place may indeed have an impact and ease our burden.”

Éowyn smiled and gave her thanks, “I shall be out in the gardens, should you call upon me.” The Warden gave her a nod. Éowyn turned to head out, but before she had made it through his door, he called out.

“My lady? There is a chill come upon the air. I will have a cloak sent to you to prevent you catching cold.”  
“Thank you”

Éowyn emerged through the archway, and saw that she was the first of her companions to make it back into the fresh air. Éowyn returned to the comfortable glade and smiled to see the blanket still waiting for them. There was not yet food laid upon it, but even as she turned to go make the request, she could see a page come with a jug of wine and a small tray of dried meats, bread, and fruit.  _ Thoughtful _ .

Éowyn settled herself against the tree, and took a piece of the bread, relishing in the use of her left hand as she spread butter and jam upon it. Only upon placing it in her mouth did she understand the depth of her hunger. She ate another, then took bits of the meat.  Once sated, she sighed. The grass under her was soft and forgiving, and the tree was angled in just a way that she needed but to lean back slightly to find her comfort. Her eyes began to flutter, and she gave in to the sensation of sleep.

Suddenly the sound of muffled footsteps shocked her awake, and she let out a cry. How had he found this place? Éowyn’s eyes were blurry, was it dark all of a sudden? She pawed around for the dagger she never parted with when he’d started testing her door locks. It was not there. She flew to her feet, her hands were balled into fists, and then pain came back to her left arm. Her ears were ringing. Finally she focused her vision. Gray eyes, not black, straight raven hair, not stringy.

“Éowyn! Are you alright?” Faramir’s gray eyes shared her panic, his hand was outstretched, but he had frozen feet away from her, not daring to move any closer. Éowyn could feel the memory starting to wash over her and could not still the beating of her heart.

“Fa-Faramir. Not Gríma. Gondor. Not Me-Meduseld. You are safe.” she had not realized she had said these words out loud until she had calmed herself enough to get her bearings. Faramir looked as if he had been stabbed by her words. She did not think about what she did next, for if she had she would have refrained. Éowyn launched toward Faramir, not stopping until she was encircled within his arms. If her impulse had taken Faramir by surprise, he recovered quickly. Laying her head upon his shoulder, she breathed in his scent and felt the sturdiness of his arms around her. She was safe.  _ She was safe _ .

She did not extricate herself from this embrace for several more seconds, letting his warmth wash over her. The memory was still playing behind her eyes, but she was present. Finally, she gently pulled away from him, and looked in his eyes. She moved to sit back down, and he was there, gently guiding her back down. It was time to open herself up more, lest these newly unveiled wounds fester. She sighed, and tried to stop herself from trembling.

“I-I’m sorry. For a second… I was back there… trapped. With  _ him _ . This- this… is my darkest memory Faramir… Gríma Wormtongue was my uncle’s closest advisor, and it seemed that I was the only person in the entirety of the land that saw him for what he was. False, and poison. Perhaps that was because his designs on me were so hungry and rapacious that it was impossible for me not to notice. I watched as my proud uncle became poisoned by Gríma’s words. He wove his web of carrion all around us, decrying the failure of the House of Eorl, comparing the Rohirrim to barnyard animals. And it worked. Despair filled Edoras. My brother and my cousin were sent on neverending campaigns. I was alone, exactly where Gríma wanted me.

He stalked my steps, telling me I was beautiful in one breath, and worthless in the next. He called my uncle honorable, then weak, then expounded upon my failure as his caretaker. All the time trying to break me so he could have me. I often heard muffled footsteps in the night, pacing outside of my bedchamber. I took to bolting my door and keeping the only copy of the key on my person. It was also when I started keeping a dagger in my bedchamber. But until that point, he only terrorized me with his presence. He must’ve known that even as bewitched as my uncle was, violating me would have overpowered his spell and cost Gríma his head. But Gríma was patient.

I begged people to help me save my uncle from Gríma’s poison, but no one listened. And I couldn’t leave. My uncle needed me so desperately that to leave him would be to let him die in dishonor and humiliation. Every moment when Gríma was away, I filled my uncle with love. I willed him to be the man I grew up with, and siphoned away what poison I could. But when Gríma returned, the battle always turned in his favor. Then Théodred died, and my uncle fell into despair. That was the moment Gríma had been waiting for.

He dropped all pretenses, and told me that I was to be his bride, and we might as well celebrate our wedding night. He forced a kiss on me right there in front of my uncle, but I fought him off and ran from the hall. I am not sure my uncle even reacted. That was also when I started to hear him outside of my bedchamber, trying every key he could get his hands on to come inside. I then kept the dagger under my pillow, and stopped sleeping.”

Éowyn took a breath. She wished that her story stopped there, but it did not. The darkest of this memory was washing over her now, so she forced herself to press on. Her voice was wavering, but no. She would go on.

“One… one night. I was coming in from a ride, and as I was exiting Windfola’s stall, hands were suddenly around my neck. He had finally done it, he’d caught me unawares and alone. Gríma dragged me into one of the stalls, throwing me down so hard that he knocked the wind out of me. I thought it was over. I did not have my dagger. He climbed atop me, calling me vile and telling me I was  _ lucky _ he would have me. But in that moment, I vowed to myself that I would rather die than be defiled by that piece of filth, and so I screamed and started fighting him with a ferocity that I did not know I had. He did not relinquish my neck, and I think he meant to kill me if he could not have me… when all of a sudden, he was gone.  
My brother, you see, had just returned from slaying a band of Orcs outside of Fangorn, and had seen Gríma’s moment of weakness. I do not think I have ever seen rage so primal, certainly not in my brother. He lifted Gríma from the ground and was holding him over his head by his neck. Perhaps it would have ended there, but my screams had drawn the attention of the  guards, who upon seeing Éomer attacking the King’s most trusted advisor, put him under arrest. No one believed Éomer, no one believed me. No one believed us Faramir.”

Éowyn’s tears finally overpowered her. Faramir sat across from her, but did not move toward her. She wanted him to touch her, wanted to feel safe. But in her despair she could not move to him, frozen in place. She trembled and heaved so violently that she could feel the spasms upset her healing arm. She feared that she would retch if their intensity did not abate, but she had kept that, her darkest of memories locked up so long that its release was overpowering. Faramir seemed to make a decision, and had moved in closer to her. First he gently placed his arm around her, then pulled her in so tightly to him that his own body was absorbing her sobs. His thumbs worked into her shoulder blades, drawing circular patterns on her skin and slowly releasing the tension that was collecting painfully there. He was whispering words she could not hear, but they soothed her, and her shudders abated under the calm will of the Steward. Éowyn’s breathing finally returned to normal, and she looked into Faramir’s eyes. They betrayed his worry, but also his calm, and his care. There was something else there too. The same emotion that had driven him to find her lavender.

“Were it in my power, I’d ensure the story of you, Éowyn, shieldmaiden of the mark, so devoted to her King that she faced down terror to keep him safe. Twice. - be written into the books of history amongst those of the greatest heroes,” Faramir moved his forehead to come into contact with her’s, sending a jolt of electricity through her. Faramir could not have known that this was Éomer and her secret gesture of love; this raven haired Steward was unknowingly signalling deep abiding love for her. It unsettled her and drew her in. She did not pull away.

“Lady?” their moment of intimacy was interrupted, and both jerked away to see a healer’s assistant holding a drab gray piece of cloth, “A cloak for you should you get cold, courtesy of the Warden.”  
“Thank you.” Faramir had answered for her, and taken the cloak from the assistant’s hands, “Please ask for some additional items for us. Hot tea with milk, and if possible, a bit of chocolate. You can have it sent from the House of the Steward. The cooks there will know where to find it…” Faramir looked stern. “One more thing. As this is a House of Healing, beware the temptation to use words as weapons. Great shame comes to those that wield weapons in places meant to heal.”

The healer’s assistant turned a bit pale at Faramir, but bowed his head in assent, and hurried back through the archway. Éowyn turned to Faramir, seeing the tenderness in his eyes as he shook open the cloak and gently placed it upon her shoulders. She had never heard Faramir use that tone, ominous yet protective. Perhaps he was loath to be the cause of uncouth words aimed at her. She was not sure she much cared. Stories of the wanton shieldmaiden of the North? They were upon the very doorstep of the end of days, a few flapping tongues would do her no harm. But then she wondered if it might do him harm to be seen as cavorting with the wild Rohirrim girl far below his station. Even in spite of her long fight against them, Gríma’s words had taken root in her soul. Perhaps the blood of Rohan would never hold the same place of honor as the blood of Gondor.

“Very few people have I encountered in my life that surprise me every day. Mithrandir is one, and each and every Hobbit I have met, and now I have the honor to add you to that list.” Faramir moved to be next to her, “I am grateful just like to sit here, sipping tea and eating chocolate with you.”

Éowyn placed her hand on Faramir’s knee, “thank you. For sharing my burden.” Faramir took her hand and squeezed it, and both appreciatively dug in once the hot tea, and eventually the chocolate, arrived. Faramir began telling Éowyn stories of old. He spoke of wars and men and Elves. Of the proud dwarves of Mount Erebor and the hardy men and women of Dale. He told the story of the children of Eru Ilúvatar and the song of the Ainur from whence sprang Arda. In the melody of his words, Éowyn started to find her way back toward slumber. So soothed was she by his presence that she let her eyes close, and soon was dreaming of the light of the two trees and the splendor of Gondolin.

Éowyn flickered awake at the sound of crumpling paper. She was covered in not one, but two cloaks, looking up at the leaves of a tree and a gray sky. Quickly she sat up to get her bearings, putting slightly too much force on her left arm. She grimaced at its scolding pain. Someone who had been leaning against the tree just to her side rushed forward at her sudden movement and look of pain.

“Are you alright?” Faramir was now but a foot from her, concern and tenderness in his gray eyes. But upon seeing her, he relaxed and smiled.

“Fine but for a harsh reprimand from my left arm. How long have I slumbered?”  
“An hour, perhaps two.” Faramir’s reply confessed that he had likely not left the glade since she fell asleep.

“It has been a long time since I have slept peacefully.” the shadow was nearly upon them, and it was becoming more difficult to separate day and night, and yet she spoke the truth. She was not sure she was ready to admit the reason for this, though he sat before her. As if compelled, she returned to her memory. She wanted to tell him the rest, to lighten her burden, yes, but also so that he would know her.

“Faramir?” Éowyn looked at him, slightly apprehensively, “Would you want to hear near the rest of my tale? I’ve left us in moments of desperate grief and should like to remedy that.”  
Faramir smiled soulfully, “It would be my great honor, Éowyn.”

Éowyn straightened her cloaks, Faramir repositioned himself and looked at her with rapt attention, “I kept the dagger on my person at all times after that. I think Gríma understood that I would die before he could have me. So he retreated to recalculate.  
I snuck down to my brother’s cell and we whispered loving words. I promised him I would find a way to save Rohan and our people, but I did not know how just yet. Perhaps I would take a blade into my own hands and seek Gríma out. My death for the return of our realm. It seemed but a small price to bring Rohan back and free my brother and uncle.  
Then, not even two days after that horrible night in the stables, Gandalf, Lord Aragorn, Gimli the Dwarf and Legolas the Elf came to Meduseld. Gandalf withdrew the spell Wormtongue had put upon my uncle, and as if before my eyes he became whole again. My brother was freed. Gríma was banished from our land rather than slain, as Lord Aragorn had advised my uncle to grant him mercy. And when my brother walked forth to speak about the stables, I stayed him. Vengeance begets bitterer vengeance, and striking to kill a pitiful creature in that moment would not have lessened my pain, nor my humiliation. My brother and I did not speak of that terrible night in the stables ever again. That… secret… I have never told anyone all that happened, save for you.”

“You granted Gríma mercy,” Faramir looked at her in awe, “to protect your uncle from further pain and humiliation.”

Éowyn could not look away from him. The electric tension was building between them once again, as if a dam was filling to the point of overflowing. Éowyn finally had to break the gaze. She had not told him everything yet. She had not told him what made her abandon home and hope, and set out for her death, and she imagined that he knew it. She was still so ashamed of it all, of her desperation to get Aragorn to just see her. Of that final defiant numbness that overtook and allowed her to ride out as Dernhelm, away from her people, to seek death. The only way she could escape her cage.

_ Now is not the time, _ she thought. She was not ready to see the reverence in Faramir’s eyes change to revulsion at discovering the depth of her shame and dishonor. She needed to be alone with her thoughts now, there were too many contradictory emotions for her to understand them all. Her heart was opening to others, but the efforts of reliving those memories was exhausting, and she worried more time in Faramir’s presence would overwhelm her. She removed the cloak from her lap and pushed herself up from the glade before Faramir had a chance to offer his hand.

“Faramir, thank you for today. I should like to find the rest of my sleep in my own bed, in hopes that the healers may call upon me tomorrow. As always, I should like to see the sunrise and think upon my brother. I shall continue to be pleased with your company should you also crave the air.” Éowyn curtsied, then held his eyes to ensure her sincerity could be felt by him. Once satisfied, she turned and walked back into the House.

_ I’ve shared my darkest secret brother, and it did not destroy me. Perhaps we will vanquish this darkness yet. My love and thoughts are with you. I hope you feel the courage your sister is sending you.  _ Éowyn smiled to herself, picked up the lavender tied in leather, and breathed it in deeply before settling herself in to sleep. She would tell Faramir of what happened the night she left to ride into battle, she just wasn’t ready to give up the light she saw in his eyes just yet.


	11. Chapter 11

She was on the battlefield of the Pelennor. Uncle writhing beneath his horse. The black thing that overwhelmed her entire vision screamed and advanced, and she nearly melted from her fear. It spoke. She laughed, and removed her helm. Then she saw it, the smallest motion, a child - no, her squire, then a glint of metal and the foul thing stumbled. This was her chance. She took her sword and willed all of her to thrust it forth, and the Witch-king perished. Then everything became gray, then black, save for that small figure.

Éowyn’s eyes sprung open. This dream did not feel like the others, it felt somehow real. And yet the dread and panic had not overtaken her. This was not a dream interleaved with terror, but a memory recalled.  _ So that is where you were that cursed day my brave little Hobbit _ , Éowyn smiled.

Her left arm felt nearly whole, and when she summoned a healer, the man marveled at her recovery, and permitted her to forego the bandages. Éowyn dressed herself, and pulled her brush through her hair. She glanced over at the lavender on her table once more, and decided to place it into a jug on her night table. She wanted to both see it and smell it. She put on her white gown, slipped into her slippers, and grabbed the gray cloak, then set off for the gardens. She slowed upon entering the great room of the House of Healing, trying to notice the details. She focused on a healer who was massaging a poultice into a man’s thigh, then re-wrapping the bandage. Skilled confident hands, much like warriors, but whose enemy was death. Éowyn smiled and continued forth through the archway.

Upon crossing the threshold into the gardens, Éowyn looked hopefully around, expecting the tall dark figure to be looking out toward the east. But he was not there. Suddenly a smokey smell filled her nose, and she turned to the far end of the garden. Merry and Faramir were there, with pipes in their mouths, smoking. Upon seeing her, both beamed and beckoned her forth. Éowyn coughed audibly, then walked to the east-facing wall to look out. It was difficult to know if the sun had risen or not, as the twilight was near permanent now. Her brother and the host would likely have turned from Ithilien, into the brown lands, and were heading east.

_ Brother, I send you my courage, and I send you my joy. You are the bravest I know. I love you. _ Deliberately noisy steps made their way to her, and she looked up to see Faramir had joined her, smelling of pipeweed.

“That smell would have given you away instantly, I fear I shall choke!” Éowyn smiled, though did not turn away from the east, “Will they have swung around the mountains?”

“I reckon so,” Faramir had leaned forward against the wall, deep in thought, “We are likely just one day from their last stand.”

Éowyn shivered. Faramir’s words had cut to her worry, “do you think that this is but a last stand before the tidal wave overtakes us?”

Faramir and Éowyn looked at one another then, and Faramir replied “My hope has not diminished yet, even as the light in the sky has. All will be decided tomorrow, for good or for ill. My father thought all hope was lost, his mind having been enslaved by that vile stone. I pray to the Valar that I have the more proper measure of our future, and that my hope is more than a fool’s hope.”

Éowyn looked at Faramir solemnly. She took his hand into hers, and felt that electric tension pass between them. There was still deep sadness in his eyes, but she also detected the glimmer of hope that he spoke of.

“I don’t know if my words will serve as any respite from living with the terrible truth of your father’s death, but these few days in this House have shone upon me and given me strength to heal my heart. It appears as if our happenstance meeting has given me hope that I too should now be able to meet my end steadily, with courage enough for those I will defend.” Éowyn looked into his eyes, and squeezed his hand protectively.

_ Today, dear Faramir, we will be a strength against your sorrows. Let your companions lighten your burdens _ , she was resolved. She would coax his stories of why his heart was heavy, and she would lighten him. She squeezed his hand, relishing in the heat of this simple contact, and willed away his poison.

As if sensing their heartfelt moment, Merry had come up to join them both on the wall, “am I interrupting?” the grin on his face was insufferable.

“You could never interrupt dear Merry!” Éowyn chortled, “Oh my! I must tell you of my dream last night. I think my mind drew upon the memory of our night with the Witch-king, because there were details I saw with clarity that had not been mine during the battle. I saw you, dear Merry, sneak behind that creature and a glint of your steel as you struck. Your steel to his knee and mine to his face, and the Witch-king was no more!”

Éowyn beamed as she told of this, the House of Healing had diluted the raw fear in the reliving of her fateful battle. Merry looked solemn, and Éowyn understood. Merry could still feel the fear of that moment, as she could. But Merry then smiled at them.

“I apologize for my absence yesterday afternoon, and am scandalized that I was not called upon to share in the chocolate!” Merry’s humor had a way of lifting the companions, and they laughed with him, “But Lady Éowyn gave me inspiration to write my adventures, and once I had started, it was quite difficult to stop. A stern healer had to come in and force the quill from my hand. There is so much more to write, as I want to give all these accounts to Bilbo should we return to Rivendell.  
The first I wrote though, I would like to read for you this day. Come with me to the glade, where I have asked for hot tea with milk and bread and jam. They told me I must ask the Steward first for chocolate, or that would be there too.”

Faramir let out a bellowing laugh at this, and both followed Merry to the glade. Merry beckoned to a page and whispered in his ear. The page looked to Faramir, who snickered but nodded, then bowed and headed away. Éowyn marveled at Merry. The brink of doom and he was thinking of chocolate. The world would be a better place if everyone made friends with at least one or two Hobbits.

The blanket was well-stocked, and Faramir took Éowyn’s hand to help her down onto the blanket. She knew she no longer needed his service, but she enjoyed the excuse for their touch. As they settled, Éowyn nudged herself into the curve of Faramir’s body, which tautened at the realization of what she was doing. Éowyn felt a shadow of doubt come over her at Faramir’s reaction. Was she showing herself to be unprincipled and base with these shows of affection? Éowyn blushed, but as she did, felt Faramir’s arm come around behind her, edging himself ever so slightly closer to her. His warmth and closeness felt good. Perhaps on the doorstep of doom, the need to be close to someone overcomes propriety.

Merry drew himself up to his full Hobbit height, and pulled out a scroll dramatically, “My good lady and Steward, I present to you a tale. The Tale of Éowyn the Shield-arm, White Lady of Rohan. Bravest of the people of Middle-Earth.” The blush that had so recently departed Éowyn’s skin returned again.

“Too many a tale of maidens have them locked in towers awaiting their brave knights to save them. This, my friends, is no such tale. For the White Lady of Rohan so loved her people that she picked up blade and shield and helm, and mounted her horse for battle, and became Dernhelm. And to my great wonderment, she also picked up me! We crept through forests and charged through fields, advancing as if there were fire in our feet, to our death and glory. To the defense of our friends.  
Greater men would have quavered at our odds, but we bellowed our battle cries and sounded our horns and rode forth, into the gaping mouth of the enemy. Our swords sang as heads cleaved and our light-footed horse danced with us as one. Dernhelm’s blows struck true, and our foes fell before us. Even for my short reach, my sword got its taste for the glory of the King. A two headed spectre, blades ablaze.  
But then fear gripped us, and all men and beasts quaked before the dark omen of doom descending from the sky. Our faithful steed screamed and reared, then fled having shed its passengers. And then the dark terror was upon us, and we watched Théoden fall below Snowmane, and that otherworldly scream pierced our ears. Men fled from their protection of their King, and the Nazgûl laughed, and called for its fell beast to feast. But one stood forth, tall and proud, and it was Dernhelm. And as if called by the Valar, Dernhelm removed her helm and shook her golden hair, which shone as if from its own fire, and it was Éowyn. And with one strike of her sword she cast down the Nazgûl’s winged mount.  
Against the veil of fear he extended, she stood. Against his threats, she laughed. Against his blows, she parried. For not even the Witch-king of Angmar would part her from her King. Her light pierced my heart, her voice gave me courage. And so I took my sword and plunged it into the nothingness of his form, and he stumbled. Then the White Lady of Rohan took her sword and thrust it forth with the power of the Valar behind her, piercing the crown of his nothingness and smiting him upon the Earth. Glowing with the light of her love and fortitude she beckoned back the courage of men. For no man from thence forward could look upon her without feeling the fire of her valor. So is the tale of Éowyn the Shield-arm, White Lady of Rohan, as told my Meriadoc Brandybuck, her faithful squire.”

Merry’s smile was fervent, and slightly uncertain; but ever the showman, he bowed. Éowyn was astonished by Merry’s words, and the honor she felt for the praise of this small Hobbit cut deeply into her heart. Éowyn stood and hugged Merry tightly, then kneeled before him.

“I do not believe there is a time in my life that I have felt so honored, Meriadoc Brandybuck. Your words will forever stay with me. If we face our doom, I should like to face it with you as my partner once more. You have my vow that I will not leave your side.” Éowyn looked into Merry’s eyes, her throat tightening with emotion. The humiliated maiden crawling behind her uncle and begging Aragorn for her escape was not the Éowyn that Merry saw, and perhaps she could be the Éowyn that Merry saw, if only for a little while, before the end.

Merry’s eyes shifted to Faramir, which in turn shifted Éowyn’s eye. Faramir sat frozen in place, still as stone. He looked so intently at her that Éowyn felt as if she were swimming in his eyes. The fire was in his gaze again, and it bore into her. She could feel warmth inside her, and did not look away from him. His gaze was nearly as electric as his touch.

“Were I told that I must pass under the shadow to have companions such as you, I would surely do it again.” Faramir said, and Éowyn sensed that the twinkle in his eyes came from a deeper source, a furnace of warmth was now burning inside of him. The same flame that appeared to have kindled inside of her. Éowyn finally broke their eye contact.

“Come Merry, your story has made me starving! I should want to eat this feast that you have prepared!” Éowyn turned to make her way to her spot. Faramir still had not taken his eyes off of her, as if incapable of looking away. Éowyn wondered if he was picturing her glowing upon the battlefield. She savored it, for now was not the time to mention that she was scared nearly into madness in that moment. Merry’s courage had saved her, just as her courage had saved him.  _ I thank the Valar for you Meriadoc, for without you, this tale would not be worthy of songs. _

Éowyn sat back upon the grass next to Faramir. As she settled, Faramir adjusted his position, and she felt his arm make contact with her back, and his fingers pass through her hair in a featherlight caress. She could have sworn that he inhaled deeply upon her return, as if breathing in her scent. Éowyn leaned into him, and could sense his racing heart. She wanted to preserve this moment in her mind so that she could remember it for the rest of her days. Merry’s joyful recital of  _ her _ tale. Faramir’s raven hair, fiery gray eyes, and electric touch. Years of fear and sadness, a vow to end it all gloriously. She’d attained the glory but not the end, yet. And these few days were as if the Valar were reminding her to live. It felt wonderful, and yet it felt full of deceit. So close to the end were they, to find these moments only so close to the end.

“You two do not realize the enormity of the deed you have done for our people, for me. I’ve been under that shadow since I was small. It has haunted me, and every day I awoke to stand against it. All the people of Gondor did, save for my mother,” Faramir sighed, and Éowyn could feel him go rigid, “Gondor has been under the shadow so long. I don’t remember even a moment when my mother was not fading under its press. She died when I was five years old. It was my first taste of sorrow.”

Faramir let out a guttural sigh, and Éowyn could see he was torn. Then Faramir’s eyes swelled with memories, and it seemed he had made his decision. He had decided to release his sadness into them, sharing his burden as Éowyn had the day prior. Éowyn remained still, leaning into Faramir, listening. Merry had followed suit, focusing all of his loving attention on the Steward.

“I don’t remember my father ever smiling at me. I wonder at whether he did when she was still alive. Sometimes I suspect he may have even laid the blame of her death on me. Boromir admitted as much during a particularly grueling campaign after much drink, that my mother never fully recovered from giving me birth. Boromir had held that in for 25 years, to protect me from its pain. Yet, the sternness and distrust my father had in me always made me suspect. Mine would have been an unhappy childhood, save for the love of my brother. Only 5 years my senior, and yet he became my protector when he was aged only ten years. Father never raised his hands to us, but he did not have much desire to know his younger son. And less when I showed interest in lore and books, alongside arms.  
Boromir would tease me endlessly when my nose was too far into some book, and would make sure I paid for my inattention when we sparred. I would not be the warrior I am today without my big brother. I thought he would live forever. I thought he would always be there to laugh at me and tut-tut when I ignored sword exercises too long. His manic smile when we both made it across the Great River after blowing the last bridge in Osgiliath, it is one of my favorite memories of him. I dreamed of him. Floating down the Anduin in an Elven boat… at peace, but dead all the same. I thought he was a hero. But, he was just a man, and his death came upon him just as swiftly as any other.  
When we parted, I was short, for I was disappointed that I would not be the one traveling to Imladris to meet the legendary Elrond and my friend Gandalf once again. I was angry with him for taking that task… angry I would not get to understand the meaning of my dream. I’ll never get to thank him for everything he has done for me - he made me the man I am.” as if his words had exhausted his body, Faramir slunk down, staring at the pot of tea that had gone cold before them. Éowyn reached and took his hand, which was slightly trembling.

“He knew.” Merry came forward and took Faramir’s other hand, “He loved you so dearly and spoke so highly of you. I do not think there was a thing Boromir was prouder of in his life than you.” A single tear dropped from Faramir’s eye. Merry then continued, “I shall have to talk with Pip, as I think the next tale I will write is the tale of Boromir the Brave, Gondor’s most honorable servant, without whom, I would not be here.”

“Nor I.” Éowyn leaned her forehead to touch Faramir’s  
“Nor I.” Faramir’s voice was but a whisper, but both heard him clearly.

“He is looking down upon you, swelled with pride. You managed a retreat under the shadow with such a level head you saved two thirds of your men Faramir. Their love for you stayed their fear, and you brought them to safety. I little doubt there is a man, woman, or child who has come to know you who has not also then loved you.” Éowyn whispered these words, and realized with gravity that they were true, “That is a legacy that our loved ones beyond Arda honor and revere.”

“But for one, Éowyn.” Faramir pulled his head back, and Éowyn could see haunted anger in his eyes, “He blamed me for my mother. He blamed me for Boromir. And his last words before his death were black, of me being stolen from him. Of my love never belonging to him…”

Faramir tried to pull his hand from her, but Éowyn did not let him. She knew in her heart that were she to let go, so might he, and so she didn’t.  _ Faramir, you will feel our love for you now, in this time of your need. We will not let you go. _ As if he could feel her will, he relented, and in his eyes she could now see fear intermingled with the anger and deep sorrow.  _ Please Faramir, trust us with your secrets as I trusted you with mine.  _ As if she had spoken those words aloud, the shadow passed from Faramir’s eyes, replaced with deep vulnerability.

Faramir gave in, “My very existence seemed destined to my father to be a betrayal, so deep his loathing ran for me that he thought my death would bring him relief. My own father tried to kill me - he tried to burn me alive! I never wanted more than for him to love me for who I was, and I got contempt in return. It does not matter if every person loves you when your own father cannot debase himself to do so.”

Faramir let out a single gasp, then broke. Tears came to him, and he shuttered. Éowyn pulled him into her arms without further thought, guiding his head to her shoulder and running her fingers through his hair. She then remembered the calming effect of his thumb strokes across her shoulder blades, and went to work, tinge in her left arm be damned. Merry had still not let go of Faramir’s hand, and both were whispering of love and honor. Éowyn had to still her heart, for the fury that this brought her. A kind and gentle heart with the mind of a scholar and skill of a warrior. No man could have a son that they should be prouder of, and Denethor had spurned this great man. In that moment, Éowyn wished so deeply that she could have knocked the previous Steward in his high head with a stick that the image of cracking Denethor over the head came crystalline into her mind.

As if reading her thoughts, Faramir looked into her eyes in that moment, puzzled. Tears apparent, but the mystery of the image that had flashed across her eyes seemed to draw him from his darkness.

“Sorry Faramir,” she said “I was picturing what they would do to me if I’d stolen Gandalf’s staff and knocked your father in the head with it. I fear it would have been very bad for diplomatic relations between Gondor and Rohan…”

Faramir went silent for a moment, as if dumbstruck by Éowyn, then without warning, Faramir let out a boisterous laugh. One not without pain, but one in which some of the sorrow had lifted from his soul. Faramir put his hand upon her cheek, “I fear I would have had a long day of meetings trying to explain that one. I suspect we could have gotten you off with banishment rather than death.”

“If my choice was to meet death so you could see in yourself what is so apparent to others, I would face it gladly. I do not fear death.” Éowyn looked upon those gray eyes ardently, and saw the fire beneath them rekindle. Faramir’s pain was not gone, but Éowyn felt greater for knowing it. And as if for the first time, she let herself hope that they would prevail. That darkness would not descend. She wanted to live long enough to see Faramir whole, knowing that he was worthy of the highest love. She wanted to see him healed.

Suddenly a small figure was between them, an arm around each of their necks. “I will not have you two heroes among mortals wish for your death!” Merry exclaimed “I’d never smoke a pipe again if that sacrifice would give you the joy you both deserve. Now, let us share some tea and I will start telling each of you all the reasons I love you.”

And so it was. The morning gave way to the afternoon, tea and fruits being replaced by wine and meats and cheeses, and the three companions laughed and smiled at good memories. As the afternoon waned, a healer came to Éowyn to ask if she was still interested in helping in the House. Éowyn nodded, and the healer left.

“I’ll be back before sunset,” Éowyn smiled and felt as if she were glowing. Placing her love into others as they hurt no longer drained her, it lifted her up. As she turned to depart from the glade, she could not help but fix her eyes on Faramir, who returned her smile, and appeared to be glowing himself.


	12. Chapter 12

When Éowyn made it through the archway, Ioreth was waiting for her with a broad smile upon her face. A knowing smile.

“Is everything alright Ioreth?” Éowyn frowned  
“Yes lady, I’m just overjoyed to see how well you’re healing,” Ioreth beamed, “I daresay your recovery is a miracle... Now, where were we? Ah yes, I have given the Warden my blessing to let you shadow me and aid me in healing for one hour today, shall we start?”

Éowyn nodded her consent. Ioreth clapped her hands together, “Then follow me!”

The next hour passed in a blur, leaving Éowyn in utter awe of Ioreth, who despite her age seemed to have both boundless energy and boundless compassion for her patients. Ioreth was not shy about naming the White Lady of Rohan to the injured Gondorian and Rohirrim soldiers. They looked at her with such reverence and honor that Éowyn’s knees were nearly weak. She thanked them all in kind, and let herself share their joy.

Éowyn learned to unwrap a bandage gently, apply a healing salve, and pack the poultice and salve combination to draw out infection. Éowyn helped Ioreth wrap bandages over a man’s head, whose ear had been cleaved off by an Orc’s black blade and held his hand to will hope into him, seeing it reflect in his eyes through his pain. 

But it was the man, writhing in some shadow dream that Éowyn most remembered. Strapped to his bed with healers soothing him, heavy bandages on his wrists and ankles. Éowyn made her way over to him, and she placed her hand gently onto his forehead, and she let Merry’s story of her bravery replay in her mind. The brave shieldmaiden who laughed in the face of fear. The man stilled, and she remembered his gray eyes slowly opening, seeing her before him. She could see her glowing form reflected in his eyes. Upon his waking, Ioreth had gently pulled her out of the room, but Éowyn knew the man’s gaze had followed her.  _ Perhaps his dreams are much like my own, _ Éowyn thought, recognizing the fits from the shadow. And yet, she also knew that he had hope. She could see it when he woke. Darkness may have felt a heavy burden upon all in that place, but Éowyn could see the embers of light amongst the healers and patients alike, still burning steady, withstanding the advancing darkness. It filled Éowyn’s heart, and soon she found their hope had begun to take root in her own heart.

“Girl! You have the hands and the soul of a healer! But I will not have you sickening yourself anew from overexertion. I shall come find you tomorrow, and perhaps we’ll see you have 2 hours in our House. Now my dear, you should wash the others’ sick from yourself, I’ve asked them to prepare a healer’s bath for you.” Ioreth voice broke Éowyn’s reflections, upbeat and indefatigable.

After leading Éowyn to the bath chamber, Ioreth pinched Éowyn’s cheek, then turned and closed the door behind her. Éowyn smiled as she disrobed, seeing that the healer’s assistants had left her a new dress and robes to replace those she had been in when on healing rounds. White again, she saw, exhaling at the sight of the simple and glowing garment. The White Lady of Rohan was a healer. She lowered herself into the bath, and let the deluge of emotions from the day wash over her. Things in her mind were beginning to fall into place. That perhaps she was not so unlovable as she had convinced herself she was, and that watching the embers of life and hope burn in others’ eyes filled her with an exhilaration that she could not ignore. She had been trained from so young to revere the sword, and she had practiced with religious devotion. Her sword was her escape. It was the scribe that let her write her own tales, rather than being forced into another’s tale - the maiden to be rescued. But the sword was also a horizon, and inevitably was not something, that she, being born woman, could count on. At some point, her sex would supercede her skills as a warrior. A healer was one who wielded a different weapon, a weapon of hope and love and caring. A weapon that could be wielded equally by any who had the skills to do it, whether they were man or woman.

In this House, Éowyn was allowed to imagine more for herself. She could give fallen men new life with healing hands, and she could be the White Lady of Rohan, slayer of the Witch-king, writer of her own destiny. She thought of Merry and Faramir, her unlikely companions in healing, and how safe she felt opening her heart and letting them in. It had been at least a decade since she felt this way, if she truly ever had. At thinking upon Faramir, Éowyn could nearly smell leather intermingled with lavender. As if to strengthen the recollection, she grabbed her lavender soap and lathered her hair. The love of her mother now lingered with another feeling. Of the touch of his skin and the light that originated from within her when he lifted his spirit. The smiles that exuded from his whole body...

Éowyn opened her eyes, sobered by the intensity and persistence of her mind’s images. No, they were on the brink of doom, and the smiles and touches were those of two condemned prisoners comforting each other as they awaited their fates. And yet… was there more? She could not think on that. The coming darkness sealed their fates, and to aspire beyond it was foolhardy. She rinsed her hair and rose from her bath, and gathered her robe around her. Preoccupied by her thoughts, Éowyn turned toward the mirror in the bath chamber and was surprised by the glow that seemed to be emitting from her, or perhaps she had forgotten what she looked like when she felt happy. Without her leave, her mind continued to linger on Faramir, and the fire in his eyes. They were no more than 24 hours from the storming of the Black Gates, but Éowyn resolved that she would make the most of that time, and her happiness was most keen when she was applying her healing touch, and when she was with her brave Hobbit or raven haired Steward.

Éowyn then remembered her promise - back before sunset. The darkness that hung in the sky made it hard to tell if she would keep her promise or not, so she hurried back to the gardens. Merry and Faramir had their heads together in quiet concentration, leaning against the eastern wall. Éowyn’s steps drew Faramir’s attention, and he turned in her direction. Éowyn searched for that familiar fire as their eyes met, and was not disappointed. Merry followed Faramir’s motion, and upon seeing Éowyn, a bright smile appeared upon his face. Éowyn finished making her way over to her companions, and leaned against the eastward wall. They followed her lead and turned back toward the dark mountains. It was almost time.

“It feels bittersweet that I find healing of wounds deeper than those I received on the battlefield,” Éowyn said, “And more bittersweet still that I’ve found my purpose and my hope, knowing that battle and death approach us again.”

“I still have hope,” Faramir replied quietly  
“Hope in your King?” Éowyn could hear the challenge in her voice, but also just the edge of her shame.

Faramir turned toward Éowyn, studying her carefully, trying to understand her meaning while also choosing his reply.

“I have hope in Lord Aragorn, and in Mithrandir. But that is not where the bulk of my hope lies.” Faramir replied solemnly, holding Éowyn’s gaze “My hope lies with Merry’s kinsfolk.”

This was not the reply that Éowyn was expecting. Was the final stand at the Black Gates not where the main battle was being fought? Éowyn felt a rush of cold come over her, and visibly shivered. There was a piece of the puzzle that she was missing. Faramir moved closer to her and laid his hand next to her’s, letting his pinky brush her’s. Éowyn nearly broke the contact between them, but realized that the anger and confusion she was feeling was not for the man standing next to her.

“Please tell me your tale.” Éowyn kept her voice steady.

“It starts when Gandalf came to the Shire to convince my cousin Frodo to take a journey to Rivendell. Frodo didn’t know it but we’d been spying on him to make sure that when he tried to fly we would be there with him,” Merry’s voice broke Éowyn’s concentration on Faramir’s eyes, “We, the nine set off from Rivendell to take a… thing… past the dark mountains and destroy it. Frodo was given the task, and he and Sam have crept ever closer to completion, evading the ever-watching eye while the rest of us do what we can to help them complete their task. For if Sam and Frodo succeed, evil will perish...”

“I met Frodo and Sam in Ithilien. It was haunting to see them, after the number of times I dreamed of their approach. Halflings, with Isildur’s bane. And from questioning I surmised their task, and was awed by their resilience against that evil thing. It filled my heart with hope. I gave them provisions and let them on their way by my leave. And trusted in their judgment” Faramir stared toward the mountains, “My father was furious that I had let such an opportunity go by, but I will never rethink my decision. I feared for them, for they took a dangerous path with an unreliable guide. Yet I  _ know _ that the bane has not made it into the hands of the enemy, so I believe that they are still moving steadily toward their high purpose: delivering Middle Earth from its doom.” Faramir then turned toward Merry, his eyes full of warmth, “and indeed, every time I have had the pleasure to meet another of your kind Merry, my heart fills with hope anew.”

“Then why is my brother storming the Black Gates?” Éowyn asked, but she already knew. The march to the gates was a sleight of hand, a distraction. She still wanted to hear her companions confirm her dread.

“They are storming the Black Gate to draw eyes to them,” Faramir said “And away from other things that move.”  
Éowyn’s stomach turned to ice, “My brother is marching to his doom as a ruse.”  
“Yes.”

Éowyn could feel the bile rising in her throat. She turned abruptly from the darkness and doom and walked away from Merry and Faramir. She wanted to run away, to find a quiet place and purge all her anger and despair. Instead she got to the tree in the glade, and bent down trying to restore her calm. So her brother had marched out knowing it would be his last march. Knowing he would never see her again.

_ Were you afraid to tell me brother? That Aragorn has you marching to your doom? _ It was enough. Éowyn kneeled down below the tree,  _ Is this why I am cursed to stay in this place, because you did not want me marching to certain death? _ Éowyn’s ears began to ring and she was back in Meduseld. The walls were closing in on her. Aragorn was turning away from her again and she was running after him, begging him not to march to his death, and if he must, to take her, so she could escape her own fate and die gloriously. She felt gutted.  _ And now Lord Aragorn, you have taken my brother with you on this mission of desperation. My last kin you will take and yet would never think upon what such a thing would do to me. _

Without a word, she retreated from the gardens and to her chambers, not daring to glance back. She sat down on her bed and caught her breath, then steadied and slowed it. She could feel the ringing in her ears and her heart thumping against her chest. The messenger telling them of her father’s death came flooding back to her mind. Her mother fading away from them. Her brother’s grave resolve at the age of 12, always trying to protect her. The grave desperate despair Éomer’s wore every time he came to Meduseld to see her, when King Théoden was under the spell of Wormtongue. Éomer did not tell her this because Éomer would protect her to his last dying breath. He would die to protect her. He marched for her survival, gladly sacrificing himself for Middle Earth, but mostly for her. Everyone in that host was marching for someone they had left behind, she just wished that it wasn’t her, for the real tangible prospect of losing Éomer threatened to drive her back into her despair.  _ Why could you not make plain that our parting in this House was not one of hope, but certain doom brother? _

Once she was breathing steadily again, she started accounting for the surge of emotions that this new information had created in her. Despair and sadness that her brother was now lost to her. Deep abiding love that he would do so to protect her. Wrath toward the man who did not even see fit to watch her open her eyes after she followed his voice and turned from the shadow, the man who had taken her brother away from her on a suicide mission.

A tentative knock on the door interrupted Éowyn’s thoughts.  
“Éowyn? It’s us, please let us in,” the voice was Merry’s, “We brought chocolate.”

Did she want to talk to her companions now? She looked at the door and thought of the two just beyond it. Two whom had opened their hearts to her, and she in turn had opened her heart to them. Two who did not keep this secret from her. Two who did not view her with pity and scorn, but as a fully-formed person, deserving to know the choices of her brother, and the quiet resilient hope advancing toward the literal precipice of Doom. Éowyn glanced back at the dried lavender she had put into a jug, still tied in its leather strap, and made her decision.

When she opened the door, both Faramir and Merry’s faces flooded with relief. Éowyn then gestured for the two to sit on her bed, closed the door behind them, then sat herself in the chair that was in the chamber.

“Those who stay behind are oft condemned by the decisions of those who leave. Yet I wonder if my knowing of this folly would have changed anything. Perhaps only that Éomer and my parting would have filled my brother’s heart with my sorrow as well as his.” Éowyn looked passively out of her window as she spoke, “I wish I could have had more time with him, to tell him how much I love him. How much he means to me. It never seems enough when you know that it is gone.”

“In times like these, we are often robbed of those moments. I will never have my goodbye with my brother. But I must believe that my brother knew how much I loved him,” Faramir spoke nearly in a whisper, “We just have to hope that they know.”

Merry broke the chocolate he was holding into three nearly equal pieces, handing two of them to Éowyn and Faramir.

“Meriadoc Brandybuck, you will singlehandedly deplete the Steward’s entire supply of chocolate!” Faramir exclaimed

“It seemed the occasion for more chocolate, for I wanted to make sure that Éowyn knew the entire tale, like I’d told you on our first meeting Faramir. From our flight from the Shire to these dark days. I still have hope for Frodo and Sam. I am sad that Pip is marching with that army without me, but I got to say my proper goodbye.” Merry popped the piece of chocolate into his mouth, then continued speaking, “I will answer any questions you have that are in my power to answer my Lady.”

“As will I,” said Faramir.

“Then I shall be pleased to hear the tale from beginning to end. Please proceed Merry,” Éowyn followed Merry’s lead and took a bite of the chocolate in her hand. In her periphery, she watched Faramir relax his shoulders, and pop his own chocolate into his mouth.

The following hour, Merry filled in the blanks he had left earlier. Faramir’s dream and Isildur’s bane. About Faramir’s encounter with Frodo and Sam in Ithilien, and their guidance by Gollum into Mordor. Both spoke of the hardy Hobbits, and Gandalf’s gamble. And finally the events and the march to the gates fell into place. The ultimate feint to give the two little Hobbits just a bit more time to make it to the Cracks of Doom and destroy the weapon. A prospect that the enemy would not suppose, thinking instead that the Lord Aragorn marched to the gates to wield the weapon himself. As if he were Isildur reincarnate. If the Hobbits failed, death and doom were a certainty in Middle Earth. Éowyn now understood that the price both Lord Aragorn and her own brother were willing to pay for the deliverance of Middle Earth, because it made the path even the slightest amount easier for Frodo and Sam.

Éowyn spent a lot of time while listening studying Merry, thinking about what his own courage said about his people, and began to understand where Faramir found his hope. Éowyn did not ask what sort of dark relic Isildur’s bane was, for it was clear to her that it did not matter. That it held power over those who possessed it, and grew more powerful with its proximity to its master was enough to understand the gravity of the task undertaken by the two brave Hobbits. The great dark cloud that Éowyn dreamed of in that very House gave her a real understanding of what turmoil Frodo and Sam must be living through every day. She held onto the stories from Merry and Faramir of the two brave Hobbits, and let their descriptions to start fill her with an iota of hope.

“I think I understand. Éomer knew he was marching to his death, and he would never have allowed me to accompany him. I suspect he also knew that I would have found a way to go if I had known,” Éowyn could feel a tear bead in her eye, “He is the last of my kin. Without him, I am the last of the House of Eorl. But mostly, I will miss him. He was the only constant in my life.”

“I went from second son with a beloved brother to the Steward of Gondor and the last of the House of Húrin in but a week’s time. All we can do is decide what to do with the time that has been given us,” Faramir was looking at his hands, “There are so many futures before us in this moment that I cannot see which fate will befall us.”  
Faramir then smiled, “But as I had wished the first day we met, I know now that I can face it steadily, for I will face it with you. Both of you.”

“Is there naught we can do should the storming of the gates fail? For Sam and Frodo?” Éowyn asked

“We shall ride out to the Morgul Vale - the Shieldmaiden of Rohan and Merry the Courageous!” Merry exclaimed, and Éowyn laughed, though neither took his comment in jest. Yes, she would ride out with Merry if the shadow began to fall.

“I should hope that two such warriors would accept the company of the Steward of Gondor on such an errand,” Faramir smiled at them both, “If we are to ride to our doom, we should do so together.”

Éowyn smiled and sighed. The last stand of three just-barely-healed souls riding upon the home of the Nazgûl. All as a desperate ploy to aid two of the unlikeliest of heroes. And yet this was the very plot of the march upon the gates. It was grander, and far more convincing, but it accomplished the same end. The gravity that the fate of the world lay upon the shoulders of two Hobbits, no matter whether three or ten thousand rode to their doom settled in the pit of Éowyn’s stomach. If the Hobbits failed, it did not matter how many rode out, ten thousand was just as hopeless as three.

“I shall light candles and think upon your kinsfolk tonight Merry. For the world is upon their shoulders.” Éowyn smiled, “And if my brother and Lord Aragorn fall, I will don my shield and sword, then ride with you both to the Morgul Vale, to meet our doom head-on.”

It felt good knowing she would be able to choose the method of her death, rather than awaiting it. And there was something harmonious about seeking the final battle with these two. The last stand of Éowyn, Merry, and Faramir. The unlikeliest of companions. A few more moments harrying the enemy that those Hobbits could use. Éowyn closed her eyes, the end was coming, and she wanted to savor the last moments with these two. And yet, the embers of hope that she saw in so many eyes in the House of Healing had begun to kindle inside of her too. The fate of the world in the hands of two brave Hobbits. She could not think of more worthy heroes.

“I do not think I will be able to sleep tonight, knowing what comes tomorrow,” Éowyn looked tentatively at both Faramir and Merry, “I should like to spend these last moments we have speaking with you, sharing stories of childhood joys and fears. Of dreams and hopes yet unrealized. Of what we might do if Sam and Frodo save the world.”

“I shall oblige my Lady, but I have one condition.” Merry replied, eyes alight, “It is past sunset and my poor stomach has had naught but chocolate. I should like to have a proper supper to replenish my mind.”

Faramir and Éowyn shared a laugh.

“So it shall be done!” Faramir exclaimed, “I will also ask for the cooks to prepare hot chocolate for us. For what a waste it would be if darkness fell and there was still unenjoyed chocolate in this world.”

Merry beamed, bowed and then trotted out the door. Éowyn had no doubt he was finding his way to healers and cooks and putting in his requests for dinner. It left Éowyn and Faramir together,  _ alone _ , looking across her chamber at one another. A heady air had filled the space between them, and both looked away from the other.

“Lavender.” Faramir only said one word, and Éowyn could see what he had fixed his eyes on.

“It helps me sleep,” Éowyn reddened slightly. She wondered if he could smell the leather still intermingled with the lavender, or that it was the earthiness of the leather that she lingered upon when she closed her eyes. When Faramir turned his eyes toward her, the fire in them revealed he likely had read at least some part of her thoughts. “I should like to thank the giver of this gift, but it went unsigned. Whomever it was has made a mark upon my heart.”

“I am sure the giver would be heartened to see that his gift was received in such esteem,” Faramir smiled, then lifted himself off of Éowyn’s bed and strolled to her, then stopped. They were but an arm’s length away. His eyes burned into her’s, and filled her with a thrill of anticipation. She could feel the warmth of his breath, and hear it quicken at their closeness. She could smell his scent; leather and soap. It took all her resolve to resist the urge to lean further into him. Her longing for his touch was painful. It was not a touch desired to alleviate pain or facilitate healing, it was a touch desired for something else that was now burning inside of Éowyn.

Faramir seemed to come to his senses first, and took a step back, the hazy desire in his eyes burning off to reveal the recognition of something in that moment. A small resolute smile appeared upon his face.

“I shall look forward to you joining us in the garden. You will not soon forget the taste of hot chocolate. Perhaps I will ask the cooks to add a little lavender to it,” with that, Faramir swept through her door.

Éowyn returned to the present. Faramir’s scent of leather and soap still lingered in the room. Unbidden, Éowyn saw his face in her mind, completing the last two steps of his journey and leaning in to kiss her. The revulsion that usually came when she thought of men touching her was absent, replaced instead with warmth and… desire.

_ This is what it feels like, _ she thought. Love. Not the familiar love she felt for her brother, not the nurturing love she felt for Merry, and not the labored love born out of desperation she had felt for Lord Aragorn. It was a flame that had kindled the first time Faramir had spoken to her, nurtured slowly and quietly as they opened their hearts to one another, and had now risen so high she could feel the fire in her chest. The ice shield she wielded had been melted by the careful, considerate nursing of that small flame, a flame that burned for Faramir, largely unnoticed, until it was too late to douse.

Finally understanding where her heart was leading her was the most bittersweet of realizations. It was probable they had but days alive if the Hobbits failed, and yet she had found something consuming and real, and built with two others. Her love would never be a prize at the completion of a quest, nor the outcome of a political alliance between lords. It was love from pain and healing and growth, from getting to truly know someone and let them know you in turn, deeper somehow than the aspirational love so often found in tales. Éowyn got to experience this love before she met her end. Healing hands and abiding love had usurped screaming blades and suicidal glory as her purpose. She may still meet her end with the latter, but that she had experienced the former, which had turned her gray world to color was worth the pain she had endured.

Éowyn looked at the lavender and leather strap. The lingering of the scents of love, but they also served as a reminder of what all-consuming love could do. Her mother had let her love burn her away into charcoal, leaving nothing for her children or herself. Éowyn shivered. She looked at herself in the mirror,  _ my heart will not be stolen by one person. The flames of my love will burn for all who need me. _ Éowyn nodded to herself sternly. She walked to her window, and lit the candle as she peered east.  _ Dear Sam and Frodo, you the bravest and best. Let my thoughts and love find you this night and help you find swifter feet and surer paths. _

After a quiet prayer to the Valar for the safety of the Hobbits and the marching host, Éowyn backed away from the window, grabbed her robe, and exited her chamber. Tonight, she would let herself hope. Hope for those Hobbits. Hope that there was a future beyond the next day. Hope that she’d be able to explore the newly recognized flame that burned unabated inside of her for the raven haired Steward.


	13. Chapter 13

The darkness that emitted unrelenting from the east made it difficult to tell night from day, but Éowyn was sure that it was now night. Candle in hand, Éowyn gently stepped through the archway. When she emerged, she saw a glow coming from their glade. Faramir and Merry’s faces were lit by dozens of candles laid upon a table, loaded with plates of food. While Merry’s face was full of delight, Faramir’s was inscrutable.

“It appears that you two are now glowing,” Éowyn smiled at her candlelit companions.  _ Embers of hope burn in us all. _

“I don’t think we match the radiance of the White Lady of Rohan,” Faramir’s gaze was penetrating, and drew Éowyn back to those short moments in her chamber. So close she could feel his breath… Éowyn then reddened, and looked down. Upon looking down, she understood Faramir’s comment. Her white gown and hair were indeed reflecting the candlelight. Only the gray robe she was wearing caught and absorbed the soft light.

“Please join us,” Merry’s eyes were fixed upon a steaming carafe, which Éowyn took to be the hot chocolate. Éowyn walked to them.

Merry and Faramir had placed themselves on the bench in the glade, and someone had dragged a chair out to the table for Éowyn. It was clear that the meal had been prepared by the cooks of the Steward, and Éowyn felt a bit guilty that they should be eating this feast when the rest in the House of Healing would be eating rations. Suddenly, she had an idea. After taking the carafe of hot chocolate and pouring three small tea cups for the three of them, Éowyn leapt from her seat. With the swiftness she’d developed as a shieldmaiden, she was through the archway, hearing the confused cries of her companions behind her.

Éowyn saw the night duty table with two drowsy healers, and walked up to them.

“My good healers? I come with a small token of thanks from the White Lady of Rohan, the Steward of the City, and Meriadoc the Courageous,” she kept her voice quiet but audible, “Do you have any cups?”

Both healers looked skeptically at her, but nodded. Éowyn made her way over and poured small amounts of the steaming liquid for them.

“It’s hot chocolate, a delicacy worthy of your valor and service.” Éowyn insisted at their continued looks of confusion. They lifted the cups to their lips, and looks of delight appeared on their faces.

“Thank you my lady! I’ve never been able to afford such a luxury,” the older of the two healers exclaimed.  
“Then we shall have to look into making sure your heroism is properly compensated,” Faramir had walked up behind her, “I’ll see to it should the days lengthen once more.”  
“Faramir, how much chocolate is left in your stores?” Éowyn turned to him, her voice barely above a whisper.  
“Enough to make hot chocolate for the whole ward I reckon,” Faramir understood

Éowyn beamed. He knew her purpose and he assented to her wishes. She stepped closer to him, within arm’s length and relished in the electric intensity that their closeness caused.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and took one of Faramir’s hands.  
“It would take an act of the Valar for me to deny the wishes of the White Lady, especially when they show insight and wisdom that I could only ever wish to achieve,” Faramir gently pulled Éowyn closer by their clasped hands. His eyes were ablaze with fire, and that same resolute look from before permeated them, “Let’s go have our share of the hot chocolate and lavender. For good memories.”

Éowyn nodded her assent. Neither dropped the other’s hand, and they walked hand in hand back toward the archway. Éowyn left the carafe with the night shift healers, wondering if the hot chocolate could lift some of those who were ailing, especially those that suffered night terrors. She thought of the man with the haunting gray eyes and heavy bandages. She wanted to attend to them, wanted to extend her comfort and will into them again. She wanted to see the delight light up their faces at the taste of hot chocolate, after the terrors of their dreams forced them awake. At another sudden idea, Éowyn broke from Faramir’s grasp and doubled back to the night healers.

“I should like to come on your rounds with that carafe of hot chocolate. I know the dreams that can haunt our nights, and wish to provide comfort to those who are stricken.” Éowyn asked softly, but firmly.

“I should like to accompany the White Lady of Rohan, for neither of us will be getting sleep tonight, I fear,” Faramir again had run after Éowyn, but then after his declaration, he turned to her, “If it please you, Éowyn.” the second statement was barely above a whisper.

“I believe the White Lady would be pleased by the company of the Steward,” Éowyn looked up at Faramir, taking the smallest of steps toward the Steward, “But now I believe we have a confused and hungry Hobbit awaiting supping with us.” Éowyn turned again to the healers, “We shall be back in an hour for your rounds.”

Éowyn was not sure why once she had the idea, she needed to execute it, but it felt right and felt good. She could feel the light in her heart flicker as she thought of pulling those shadows away from some of those haunted eyes. A finger brushed her hand. Faramir was staring down at her again, reverence and fire in his eyes, and a flicker of something else. Was it love? She tried to put it out of her mind, but she could not douse the twinkle of hope. Perhaps her hope was playing tricks upon her, and she had misunderstood that flicker. This man who healed her, whose touch and company she craved, whose words and comfort had drawn her off the ledge of despair. This highest and noblest man of Gondor, save for one.

Would she be devastated if he did not love her back? She was not sure, for it seemed there would not be enough time for that to be resolved. She would love Faramir until they met their doom, and she let that love help her find her courage to meet it steadily. Éowyn took Faramir’s hand, relishing in its warmth, and they walked back out into the gardens.

“Where did you to go off to with the hot chocolate?” Merry’s face was stern and his hands were on his hips. Éowyn could see that there were nibbles taken from some of the dishes. She stifled a chuckle.

“There are others in this House who need it more than us,” Faramir replied  
Merry’s stern look softened, and he lobbed a look at Éowyn, “Then we shall savor the cups that the White Lady has provided us.”

Éowyn let the laughter escape her then and let Faramir lead her to her chair, but just before she sat down, he halted them, “one more moment, Éowyn.”

Éowyn looked at Faramir and saw that inscrutable resolution again, and nodded in assent. Faramir went behind the tree and bent over a package. He unwrapped it carefully to reveal a truly remarkable piece of cloth. Blue with beautiful silver stars upon the hem and neckline. Éowyn’s breath faltered at the garment, which Faramir was carrying toward her. When he came to her, he shook the piece of cloth out to reveal it was a mantle.

“It was made for my mother, Finduilas of Amroth. It has sat as a monument to my family’s grief since she died.” Faramir took one more step toward Éowyn. His eyes carried hope and apprehension, and maybe, hopefully, a sliver of love, “I would like you to have it.”

Éowyn flushed. This was not a gift from one friend to another, as the lavender had been. This was a queenly gift, one that carried the same emotions as his eyes. Fear of accepting it come over Éowyn. Was Faramir declaring his love for her upon the brink of darkness, and what did he reckon she would offer him in return? What would such a gift mean if the Hobbits completed their task? Even as she had promised herself she was prepared to think upon her newly blossomed love for the raven haired Steward, she felt doubt seep into her about what was to come if their time on Middle Earth numbered in decades rather than days.

Éowyn closed her eyes and forced herself to think about that future. His wife. Their children running and laughing, learning to ride ponies. Merry visiting them and teaching the children the best ways to raid the pantry. Whispering her love to him in the darkness when he seized with nightmares of fire and shadow. Holding his hand as he led her to hidden Ithilien waterfalls. Seeing it in her mind’s eye, it was not scary. It was familiar, and yet it was lofty, the deep desire of her heart. Éowyn felt an immense calm come over her. She re-opened her eyes, and met Faramir’s apprehensive gaze.

“I will cherish this to the end of my days,” Éowyn took the smallest step closer to him, letting the her thoughts of her future with him radiate through her and fill her with hope. Love of this man was real and abiding, and she was confident it would not abandon her if hope returned.

In an instant, Faramir’s eyes filled with fire and his smile lit up the dark, all apprehension forgotten. Éowyn removed the gray cloak that had been given to her by the healers, and turned around so that Faramir could fasten the mantle. She felt him gently place the mantle on her shoulders, then grasp her hair and place it over the mantle, intaking breath as he did so. She turned around and let him button the front, holding his eyes and feeling the electric tension build higher and brighter as he completed his task. Despite Merry’s presence, she wanted to take the one last step to him and surround herself in his arms. She satisfied this craving by taking a deep breath of him, absorbing his leather and soap scent.

Faramir backed away from her, taking her in. Éowyn let her eyes feast upon him in kind. His eyes were gray and stern, and his cheekbones cut to his jaw. His lips and eyebrows were full, and though his face was youthful, it also carried a look of one who had prematurely experienced too much sorrow. His dark raven hair fell below his shoulders, which were toned and taut. His form was tall and lithe and could easily have been mistaken for Elven. He had a broad back and toned sinewy arms and legs.  _ It appears that women are not immune to allowing hunger into their eyes _ , Éowyn mused. A slight flush had come into Faramir’s face, and she wondered if he had taken note of her attentions. She merely smiled. She would let herself enjoy these moments of unabashed honesty, before the end of all things.

Merry coughed, delivering both from their reverie. Upon seeing the admonishment upon his face, both broke into laughter. Perhaps watching a love story unveil before his eyes was too much, but Éowyn reckoned it had more to do with the unconsumed vittles in front of them than the hunger in the eyes of his companions.

“I will try to eat with the grace of the Eldar, for fear of sullying this ethereal garment,” Éowyn laughed, and took Faramir’s awaiting hand to help her sit. The stars upon the mantle glowed in the candlelight. The garment looked like it was blessed by Elbereth herself.

As Faramir took his place beside Merry, he raised the small teacup full of the now lukewarm liquid, “to hope on the precipice of doom.”

Éowyn and Merry raised their glasses in kind, and drank the hot chocolate. The taste of such a beverage danced across Éowyn’s tongue, nearly overwhelming her with its flavor. As the initial wave of bliss had subsided, there it was. Lavender. She could taste it. She closed her eyes and saw her mother opening her arms and folding Éowyn into them. She opened her eyes and saw Faramir staring raptly at her. Darkness may have been crushing upon them, but Éowyn felt little except joy in that moment.

The three then began to dig into the meal before them, first in companionable silence, but then stories began to flow. Remembrances of notable firsts in their lives. The first time that Merry had smoked Longbottom leaf. The first time Éowyn galloped a horse. The first time Faramir had read a book cover to cover. They spoke of their favorite tales and favorite songs, acts of valor or love that moved them. Soon the hour had passed, and the food had been consumed.

“If you’ll excuse us Merry, we’ve promised the healers we will accompany them on their rounds tonight,” Faramir bowed, but with the incredulous reaction he received, he added, “Unless of course you would like to join us?”

Merry considered the offer, but then there was a flicker in his eye, “thank you for the kind invitation, but I fear the temptation of that hot chocolate meant for others will be too much. I have another task in mind, and look forward to your return to this place?”

Éowyn smiled, “of course dear Merry! We shall see you soon.”

Faramir offered his arm to Éowyn thoughtfully, taking in the vision of her in his mother’s mantle once more. Éowyn smiled and took his arm, and they walked into the House of Healing.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered so only she could hear, Éowyn squeezed his arm in return, letting a smile escape her. Suddenly the darkness was not so oppressive, and she saw moments of whispered affection with this man at the coronation of her brother, and at the honoring and knighting of the newest members of the Riddermark. She breathed in those visions and caught the scent of the mantle; old musty wood, as if it had been released from its storage trunk just that day.

The healers were waiting for them, with large grins on their faces. Each took in Éowyn’s mantle, and Éowyn wondered if they knew its origin. She was not sure yet what to think of Faramir’s gesture either, for declarations of love and honor were more readily uttered at times this close to the end. She knew what she hoped it meant, but would not yet dwell further upon its meaning. Éowyn gently removed her hand from Faramir’s arm and curtsied to the healers. Faramir, following Éowyn’s lead, bowed.

“We are at your disposal,” Faramir said, though Éowyn could sense his uncertainty. She gave him a reassuring look, and stepped forward.

“Well my Lord Steward, this is a gift indeed! All we do is look in upon our patients, comfort those who are haunted by the shadow in their dreams, and change bandages of those most grievously wounded. Most of the grave injuries are healing, so this should take naught but a half hour.” the older healer said, “For those stricken with dark dreams, I daresay the White Lady’s offering of hot chocolate is a high gift indeed! The oppressive darkness has been making sleep warier for nearly all our wards.”

Éowyn nodded, then removed her mantle, “I will put this in my room and be back.”

Éowyn grabbed a candle from the wall, and hurried to her chamber. She laid the mantle carefully upon her chest of drawers, looking down at it as it glistened in the candlelight. As if inspired, she took a couple of sprigs of lavender from the bundle and placed them into the folds.  _ So this mantle reminds us both of love. _

When Éowyn returned, she stepped lightly back to Faramir’s side, and followed the healers. Soon they were amongst the patients, in the great room. Éowyn opened her ears and began to hear them. Some were sleeping with deep, steady breaths, but there were many whose labored breaths and fearful moans filled the room as well. Once in awhile she also could hear a gasp, or catch a twitch as someone woke up from their nightmare. The healers glided effortlessly to those that had awakened from their terrors, and Éowyn followed quickly behind, to offer her hand and her will. She’d look into many stricken eyes, and stroked their hands softly until they returned to the present and saw her face, relief washing over them. Faramir followed, but kept his distance, simply watching Éowyn.

Finally, the healers made their way to the private rooms, knocking softly on a couple of the doors. One which they entered, Éowyn saw the man with the haunted gray eyes strapped to his bed, thrashing violently at his binds. He appeared to be screaming through his closed mouth. Éowyn was about to go to him when she felt Faramir whisk past her. He put his hands on the man’s head, softly stroking his brow. With Faramir’s touch, the man stilled and slowly awoke. Faramir and the man’s eyes met, and the fear that was present in both melted away. Faramir whispered to the man, and Éowyn watched him relax. Once he was completely settled, Faramir kissed his forehead and walked back to her side. The healers, who had moved away to give the Steward space, looked at Faramir in admiration. They then proceeded to the man with cloths filled with some pungent medicine, and a draught of some steaming liquid. The man accepted both gratefully, but let his gaze linger on the Steward and Éowyn.

“He was in my company. One of the last in our retreat. I didn’t know he made it,” Faramir’s hand found Éowyn’s, his voice was heavy with emotion.

“If we survive the darkness, I want to be a healer.” Éowyn whispered to Faramir, feeling compelled to share her secret hope with another. How strange to be finding her purpose in this life so close to the end of it.

The rest of the rounds were more routine, Éowyn often taking the lead to alleviate others’ fretful sleep, but Faramir also stepping forward and trying his hand. Once in awhile, a patient was sufficiently awake to accept a sip of hot chocolate. And Éowyn knew she would remember every smile that came upon a face at its taste. But as in the morning, as soon as they had gotten into the routine, rounds were over, and Faramir and Éowyn were back on their way to the gardens.

“Oh! I’ve almost forgotten!” Éowyn released Faramir and hurried back to her chamber to retrieve her mantle. Éowyn also stopped to trouble the healers for a jug of wine to share amongst the companions, to which they obliged. Éowyn left the hot chocolate for the healers to enjoy and share amongst patients who awoke from their terrors. Perhaps Aragorn had been right about not all heroism being regaled in tales, though Éowyn thought the fault was in the tales for not capturing the stories that did not involve swords and death.

Faramir had waited for her, and came alight upon seeing that she had gone to retrieve the mantle. Éowyn pulled her hair through the neck, and allowed him to button it up again. They eyed each other with comfortable smiles, and waited for their jug of wine. Both thanked the healers heartily for their help, and returned to the gardens, holding hands.


	14. Chapter 14

“Lavender.” Faramir said the single word. At first, Éowyn looked at him questioningly, then she remembered the sprigs she had placed into the mantle’s folds. Éowyn blushed, and smiled inwardly, of course he had noticed. Faramir’s grip around her hand tightened. Éowyn relished the contact.

Merry was at the far end of the garden, taking a smoke on his pipe. When he saw the two approach through the archway, he called to them, quenched his pipe, and hurried toward the glade to meet them.

“You gave me an idea,” Merry declared “Our time in this House has been special to me, but something has been missing. We’ve spoken of great tales of valor and bravery, even from the deeds amongst us, but we have not heard these tales in song. So I went to find my my flute...”

“That sounds wondrous Merry! Wherever did you learn to play?” Éowyn marveled at the Hobbit.

“In the Shire, Bilbo always told us to cultivate those hobbies that brought us joy. So I took up playing the flute. I found joy in making music, and brought it in turn to my friends. Pip was always better at coming up with the words of songs though…” Merry smiled sadly, “But I can play ones that I know. I figured a little last bit of music would be nice. You know, before the end.”

“You never cease to amaze me Master Meriadoc,” Faramir beamed, “What would you like to play?”  
“Most songs I know are Shire songs, but I have learned the ballad of Beren and Lúthien,” replied Merry, “Would you and Éowyn care to sing the words while I play?”

Éowyn reddened at this, but could not deny her small brave companion, so she nodded. Merry smiled broadly, and picked up his flute. Before he started, Éowyn drank a deep gulp of wine. She had not sung songs of such high love and passion since she was a young girl, still full of hope, before Wormtongue had chased away all her dreams of passion. She wondered if Faramir could sense her nerves, and upon looking over at him, his own eyes wide, suspected he could. She sighed, as with all things in those days before doom, no time like the present.

Merry’s melody began, and Éowyn found her voice. The ballad of Beren and Lúthien was well known across Middle Earth, and Éowyn had little trouble remembering the words and melodies. At Beren’s part, Faramir broke in, sounding mildly embarrassed at first, but then finding his voice too. As he sang the words of Beren’s love, he gazed at Éowyn. Éowyn flushed, Beren’s words from Faramir’s lips was almost unbearable. She wanted them to be true, to be for her, and yet, she was not ready for them to be. At the song’s completion, Merry laughed gleefully, which spread to both Éowyn and Faramir in turn. Éowyn glanced up at Faramir, and found him looking back at her with that inscrutable look again. She wondered if his thoughts were as perplexingly layered as her own.

“Unfortunately, that is the limit of my Elven songs for now. Shall I play some of the songs of the Shire?”  
“Yes, yes!” Éowyn exclaimed, “I remember you playing that flute when I was Dernhelm, Merry. And I miss your festive tunes.”

Merry’s flute filled the night with music, while Éowyn and Faramir drank wine and absorbed his music merrily. Sometimes Merry’s songs were similar enough to a Gondorian or Elven tune that Faramir would spontaneously break into song, often causing Éowyn to laugh and occasionally causing Merry to pause and exclaim “those aren’t the words!”

As Merry began yet another song, this one with hopeful and melancholy tones, Faramir jumped to his feet. He walked over to Éowyn and stretched out his hand to her.

Faramir looked at Éowyn hopefully, “I’d be pleased if the White Lady of Rohan would give me this dance”

“I don’t know the steps,” Éowyn was grateful for the darkness, because her blood had rushed to her face. Yes, she had been born of nobility, and was taught many dances of Rohan, but she was woefully undereducated in dances of Gondor, and had given up dancing completely after Gríma came to Meduseld.

Sensing her apprehension, Faramir leaned toward her, “I will lead you, I promise.”

“I trust you,” Éowyn took his hand and stood up with him. Merry’s tune repeated, and he kept the rhythm.

Faramir led her into the glade, bowed, then adopted what Éowyn took to be the starting posture, standing straight upright, one hand behind his back, and one reaching out for her’s. Éowyn mirrored him, and he smiled. He took her hand in his, then whispered “follow me.” and began to walk in a circle to the tune. Éowyn did as bidden, and found that following his steps was easy. Faramir seemed to be projecting the next move into her mind. Soon Faramir had placed his other hand upon Éowyn’s waist, and they were gliding around one another to the music. At the crescendo, Faramir placed both his other hand on Éowyn’s waist and effortlessly lifted her into the air. It was is time had stopped between them in that moment. She laughed, in the exhilaration she was feeling. The darkness fell away from the two of them, and Éowyn saw herself in a great hall, lifted into the air, propelled as if light as a feather by his sure and steady arms.

Éowyn blinked herself back into the present, that future currently obscured by the oppressive darkness above them. Merry had stopped playing, and Faramir had let go of her. Éowyn’s face reddened. It was not a time to see herself dancing with a man she was growing to love, it was a time to face doom with steadfast courage, dreams of Faramir or no. Faramir seemed to have come to his senses too, and Éowyn could see a mingling of sadness and fire in his eyes. In this time, she was not ready to abandon hope, for in abandoning hope she was abandoning her brother, and those brave Hobbits. So Éowyn gave in to her hope.

Éowyn returned to the table that still housed Merry, followed closely behind by Faramir.

“I will ride out if doom befalls us, but if Sam and Frodo succeed, I will become a healer.” she stated it as fact, not as desire, “I want to help scars the heal, both of the land and of its people. For little have I found in this world that brings me hope the way it does when I see that hope on the faces of the wounded in this House.” Éowyn ended her reverie there, not yet ready to say the rest. The hope that had raven hair and thoughtful gray eyes.

“I will ride out with you my lady,” came Merry’s reply, as if he too felt that to speak only of hope would damn it, “But if Sam and Frodo should succeed. I would want to go back to the Shire, and write with Bilbo all the tales of this war and our adventures, recording it into the Red Book. I also think I want a family, to settle in at Buckland like my kin. I’ve never wanted that before.”

“I’ll be there with you both on our one last ride,” Faramir completed the trio’s thoughts, “But were hope to prevail, and the King returns. I would move to my fair Ithilien, to draw out its poison and heal its lands. Perhaps return the seat of the House of Húrin to Emyn Arnen, the fairest valley of Ithilien, and build a garden there.” Faramir paused, contemplating, then looked ardently at Éowyn, “I think, like you Merry, I want a family. Not just to preserve my House, but to see things grow.”

Faramir looked away from her, but she could see a smile form on his face. Perhaps Faramir had been sharing her daydreams after all. Another invaded her mind in that moment, of watching the stars from a garden their children in bed. Leaning against Faramir and speaking of her days’ errands to him, his arms encircling her with warmth and love. Éowyn’s vision filled her mind with vivid color, and she let the hope of it shine through her.

“I should like to see Ithilien,” Éowyn let the words slip from her lips. Faramir’s eyes were upon Éowyn immediately, puzzling out what she had said, and also what she was implying.  
“I shall have to show it to you then,” Faramir spoke softly, but fervently. Love. Was it this? Had he found her as she had found him in this place? She allowed herself to hope.

The conversation started up again, each companion expounding upon their hopes. Of Faramir wanting to fry fish directly from the cold Ithilien mountain streams. Of Merry wanting to go truffle-hunting in one of his favorite spots in the Buckland forest. Of Éowyn wanting to ride Windfola into the wind, returning to her favorite field to collect wild strawberries. Of seas and waves in Dol Amroth. Of bare rocks and breathtaking sunrises of the White Mountains. Of the earthy smells after the fresh rain in the Shire. It was a night of hope, pushing back against the looming darkness and doom that pressed them from the east.

As if each could sense it, they migrated back to the eastward facing wall. A cold wind from the north had begun blowing, and Éowyn shivered. Faramir walked up and placed his arm around her. Faramir followed Éowyn’s eyes.

“What do you look for, Éowyn?”  
“Seven days. My brother will have arrived at the Black Gate.” Éowyn said sedately  
Faramir nodded, then turned to face her.

“Seven days,” Faramir held Éowyn’s eyes, “Do not think ill of me, but these days have brought me more joy and pain than I ever thought to know. Joy to be with you and Merry, and pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time have grown dark indeed. Éowyn, I would not have this world end now, to lose so soon what I have found.”

“Lose what you have found?” Éowyn could feel her heartbeat quicken. Faramir was on the cusp, about to declare love; Éowyn could feel it. She wanted him to continue, and yet she wanted him to stay his tongue. She wanted to hear his words, wanted to hear him declare his love, if that was what was in his heart. But not like this. She wanted those words to come from a sure heart, whether it was with the screaming fury of one riding to his doom, or with the certainty of a future as hope returned to Middle Earth.

Before Faramir could continue, Éowyn interrupted him, “Here we are, standing on the great precipice between doom and hope. Let us not make declarations yet, here in this dreary gray uncertainty. For the words we want to say will be there for us when all things become clear.”

Éowyn desperately hoped that Faramir could read her meaning, and as he looked back at her, she thought perhaps he did. They stood in silence for a long time, his arm still around her, looking to the north. Merry joined their silent vigil at the eastward wall. Then as if Middle Earth was holding its collective breath, the wind stopped, and all sound seemed to ceased, as if a blanket of silence had been thrown over the land. A new, bright light materialized in the north beyond the dark mountains. Then a great tremor rattled through the earth and shook the stones upon which they stood, and the silence retreated with a quiet sigh. Judgment day had arrived.

“It reminds me of Númenor,” Faramir broke the silence, seemingly compelled to speak these words.  
“Of Númenor?” Éowyn drew closer to Faramir, but did not turn her gaze away from the new light in the sky.  
“Of the great dark wave climbing over the its green lands and above the hills, the collective gasp of its people, facing darkness unescapable.” Faramir replied back, “I often dream of it.”  
“You think the darkness is coming?” Éowyn asked, “Darkness unescapable?”  
“No,” Faramir looked down upon Éowyn, and she could sense some light and hope in his voice, “It was but a picture in the mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says no. My limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. Éowyn, Merry, my wondrous companions, in this hour I do not believe any darkness will endure.”

Éowyn looked back at Faramir at this, and noticed that she too felt lighter, as if the joy that had been kindled and burned steadily in her heart had spread throughout her limbs and now burned uninhibited, threatening to burst through her skin. She met Faramir’s eyes, and saw the fire in them, and the love. And he stooped down to her, and placed a kiss upon her brow. Éowyn’s skin felt as it if had been struck by lightning, and the touch of his soft lips lingered. She kept her eyes closed, to savor the sensation. She wanted to pull his mouth to her’s, to taste his soft lips in that moment of exuberance, somehow knowing that dawn of a new age was now upon them. When she opened her eyes though, Faramir had returned his gaze to the north, and their electric moment was past.

With surprising suddenness, the darkness shattered, and the sunrise in the east was revealed. All about the city, the silence had broken, and sounds of cheers and songs could be heard around them. Éowyn felt a smile radiate through her, and her hope for decades instead of days upon Middle Earth broke through. A figure high in the sky then appeared before the city, and it was a Great Eagle, bringing tidings. The evil of Sauron had been broken forever! The dark tower was thrown down! And the King was returning!

“They succeeded,” Éowyn choked down the tears of joy that threatened to break through, “Merry, Sam and Frodo did it!”

The joy they shared was then marred by its reality. Had Frodo and Sam survived their task? What of Éomer and Pippin, and Gandalf? The Eagle’s message had made clear that Lord Aragorn had survived, but now the worry for the others returned to Éowyn. She turned back to the east.

 _Dearest brother, you have succeeded! I am alive and whole, and now my thoughts return to you and hope that you are alive and whole too. If Aragorn has delivered you, then I will hold him in the highest honor_ , Éowyn then turned toward the violent orange light that was the erupting Mount Doom, where the Hobbits were victorious, _and dear Frodo and Sam, you who have given the whole world hope. I hope one day we shall meet, and I will sing songs of your valor. Be safe and whole my brave Hobbits._

Suddenly Éowyn was very tired, as if suddenly all her sleepless nights had caught up with her at the same time. She looked at both Faramir and Merry, and her eyes fluttered, “At this time when joy is at its apex, I fear I cannot keep open my eyes. Awaiting our doom, I had not made room in my mind for this joy. I must leave you both for now to sleep for the first time with the sun shining upon me.”

Faramir gazed down at Éowyn, but his look had become inscrutable yet again. She smiled, then leaned forward and placed a kiss upon Merry’s brow. She then stepped upon her tiptoes and pressed her lips Faramir’s cheek, letting her nose brush against it, lingering to breathe in his smell. Éowyn then turned and left the garden.

Healers and patients alike were singing and smiling as Éowyn had never seen, so lifted was this place. She beamed as she looked around, seeing some of the most haunted charges with light in their eyes. She chanced a glance at the Ranger with haunted gray eyes, and saw that he had the mildest of smiles upon his lips. She loved this place, and her path forward was now clear. She wanted to stop and participate in the merriment, but her steps were labored from exhaustion. She knew she could not fully participate in the singing and celebration until she had word of the fate of her brother, and of the Hobbits. Her joy could wait.

Éowyn made it to her room, then took off the mantle. Its stars glistened and glittered as if the joy of that place had suffused them. Éowyn then glanced at the lavender in Faramir’s leather strap, and love of the raven haired Steward filled her. Yes, she would tell him. Of everything that was in her heart. She would speak of her her love for him and her hope for them. She would tell him of her shame and despair over the Lord Aragorn, the only secret she had not yet shared. And she would hope that he understood.

Without overthinking it, Éowyn grabbed a small pen knife from her belongings and cut a thin strip from Faramir’s leather strap, then sliced through a small bit of her hair. She tied it with the leather strip she had cut. A token for her Steward, and a promise of her love. It was a symbol beyond words, and Éowyn felt the joy of seeing her hair mingled with his tie, and wondered if it smelled of lavender and leather. With that last effort, Éowyn lost her fight with slumber, falling asleep with a smile permeating her entire person.

.


	15. Chapter 15

When Éowyn awoke, twilight was in the sky. Had it been a dream? She saw the mantle folded upon her chest of drawers, and the small lock of her hair bound in leather sitting beside the lavender and smiled. No, it had not been a dream. Éowyn arose from her bed, threw on a robe and her slippers, and opened her door. Ioreth, who down the hall, saw her open the door and came clamoring over to her.

“Dear girl! You slept with such stillness we were nearly worried death was taking you, but for the peace in your face. You’ve slept nearly a day and night! We would have roused you if you slept another hour.” Ioreth was to Éowyn now, pinching her cheeks, “I daresay that you could use a bath, which I will have prepared for you.”

“Thank you Ioreth,” Éowyn embraced the wizened healer, “For everything.”

The wrinkles around Ioreth’s eyes tightened as she beamed at Éowyn.  _ Yes, _ Éowyn thought,  _ I will be a healer. _ An understanding seemed to pass between the two of them. Ioreth then turned away to fetch healer’s assistants to set up the bath.

“Ioreth? Have we word of the host?” Éowyn asked, “And what of Meriadoc or the Steward?”

Ioreth turned and smiled, “No news of the host yet, save the Eagle’s song. Master Meriadoc remains under our care, but we see fit to release him whenever he so desires. The Steward has been released from this House, and has taken up his authority over the city in preparation for the return of the King. Can you believe it? In my life, I never thought I would get to see these days. A King!”

Éowyn curtsied her thanks, then waited for a healer’s assistant to take her to a bath chamber. Éowyn looked in her mirror and saw her face, aglow with the twilight of morning, and saw peace for the first time. The shadow had lifted! And yet, there was so much left unresolved. Éowyn thought upon it all as she was led to the bath chamber, her mind ever vacillating between intense gray eyes and raven hair of the Steward, and warm hazel eyes and flaxen hair of her brother.

She was heartsick from waiting for news of Éomer, desperately wishing her big brother was alive and whole. But she longed for Faramir too. Her path changed dramatically depending on those tidings. She had promised Éomer that she would take up leading and healing her people in the event of his death, a promise she would not break. Unbidden, she found herself wondering if the Steward would follow her to Rohan should she need to lead her people for her brother and her house. Was his love for her so overpowering that he would shirk the needs of his own people to follow her? No, she would not allow him to make that choice. Duty to their people usurped love, this had always been true. Healing their broken and scarred lands, and people, duty to that healing was paramount, beyond seeking the wants of the heart.

Éowyn disrobed and smelled that Ioreth had prepared for her a healer’s bath. She smiled at the woman’s thoughtfulness, and sank in. That was one dream that she would not have to give up, no matter the outcomes at Morannon. If Éomer had died, she would bring a House of Healing to Rohan, overseeing its construction and the training of its healers. If he yet lived, but her desire to be with Faramir was spurned, she would return to Rohan by Éomer’s side and convince him to let her form the House of Healing all the same. Her recovery in that place was evidence enough of its utility; he would have little objection. She would stay in the House of Healing as long as she could to learn their arts, and become an apprentice. She would find the books of healing and ask for them to be copied, and she would talk with the Rohirric healers to learn of those practices that complemented to the works of Gondor, creating an exchange of ideas and practices between the two great lands.

But becoming a healer was only but part of her heart’s deepest desire. She knew now, those thoughts of Faramir and she, of children, of dancing, of whispering comfort and love in the night, of looking at the stars in a garden, had been but a preview of what her heart truly yearned for. It longed for him. And were this dearest wish to come true, that she would become the wife of the Steward, he would encourage her desire to become a healer. Perhaps she would be blessed to fulfill these greatest of hopes, growing a garden and rebuilding Ithilien, Faramir by her side, and establishing a House of Healing there, and also growing their family. Éowyn could feel waves of hope take her in the warm water. Yes, this was the future she wanted. One with healing, and one with Faramir.

Her hope for her brother’s life had redoubled. She wanted to see him again and tell him how she loved him, but she also now wanted him to survive so she could live out her greatest hope. It was selfish, she knew. To hope for his survival so she could get all she wished. She was not ready to become the leader of her people, having abandoned that duty when she rode forth as Dernhelm. But if she needed to, she would take up that responsibility without hesitation. And she would marry one of the high lords of Rohan. Love was such a rarity for those of her birth that she would simply be grateful to have experienced it for a short while.  _ Yet I cannot stop hoping to see you again brother, for both our futures and happiness. _

Éowyn arose from the bath, smelling the lavender soap that she had run through her hair. Declarations of love needed to continue to wait. She would not force Faramir to stay his words if he sought her out, but she still worried that their love and their fates collided in the most tragic of ways.  _ We must wait until all is before us, _ Éowyn resolved. She gathered her robe about her and walked back to her chamber, where she grabbed a white dress and dressed herself, then looked over at the lavender bound in leather. Well, if she could not declare her heart to the Steward, then she could at least wear his favor, so she braided her hair and tied it with the leather strap. The scent of leather - his scent - filled her, and she smiled.

She walked through the archway to the garden, wishing for Faramir to be there, but she found she was alone. Éowyn turned to see the glade had been cleaned of its blankets and tables, and that only the bench sat amongst the grass. She walked over to it and sat down, looking out to the east. There they would be celebrating their victories and burying their dead. Soldiers would be fiercely scribbling letters of their survival to their loved ones and battle healers would be tending to the wounded. She hoped, no, willed, Éomer to be among the victorious, singing songs of Rohan and glory. She imagined the tears in his eyes as he looked at the White City where she dwelled, and wondered if he could feel her love for him across those leagues.  _ Éomer, please be alive. _

As if overcome by these thoughts, Éowyn retreated from the gardens, and hit with sudden need, quietly made her way to Merry’s room. She knocked softly on his door. Small footsteps came closer, and the door cracked open. When Merry saw her, his face filled with happiness, and the two embraced. It was one mingled with both joy and foreboding, for she knew that they were both awaiting news of those who were to the east.

“Come in, my lady!” Merry beckoned Éowyn through the threshold, she sat upon Merry’s bed, “I daresay you slept enough to make up for all your sleepless nights! Faramir and I waited, but he was called urgently back to take up his office as Steward. I don’t think he knew what to do with himself, as unexpected as his title is to him.”

“It looks as if a monsoon has hit your desk Merry! Are you writing?”

“Everything and anything I can think of. I’ve finished my tales of Boromir’s last stand, and am now working through the Entmoot… anything to distract me from… from waiting for the messengers.” Merry paused his activity at this thought, “They say the first accounts will arrive sometime this evening.”

Éowyn took Merry’s hand, and they both said silent prayers to hear their loved one’s names amongst the victors. Éowyn squeezed his hand, “then let’s take breakfast in the garden and speak more of what we will do now that hope has returned to Middle Earth.”

Merry smiled, and accepted Éowyn’s offer, “it is not honorable for a squire to decline the request of his lady!”  
“And what of a friend?” Éowyn beamed  
“Even more dishonorable, I reckon,” Merry smiled

Éowyn rose, as did Merry, who grabbed his quill and a piece of parchment to continue his writing. Éowyn walked to the healer’s station to ask for breakfast to be brought to them in the garden, and that news be brought immediately to them once the first accounts and messages from the battlefield had arrived in Minas Tirith.

A blanket was laid out in the glade for the two companions, and Éowyn was surprised at the sudden and intense warmth of the sun upon her skin. She had not marked the cold during the darkness, but this warmth felt cleansing. Involuntarily, she looked around the garden hopefully for the all-too-familiar raven hair, knowing that he would not be there, as he was not just moments earlier. Merry had noticed Éowyn’s distraction.

“You are looking around for him too, aren’t you?” Merry probed, gently  
“Such changes are coming upon this place Merry, that I have not yet found my bearings. I seek the same comforts from before the darkness fell, for those were the ones that lifted my heart from sorrow,” Éowyn told the truth, but not the entirety of it. When had Merry become nearly as perceptive as Faramir?

“I still puzzle at something my lady. Why did you ride forth?” Merry was looking fervently at Éowyn, and she could tell that this question had been eating at him for a while. She could also hear the undertones to it.  _ Aragorn. _

Éowyn looked at his thoughtful eyes, and wondered. She felt naught but anger for Aragorn, and so much shame and disappointment in herself for those desperate and humiliating moments. Yet she knew how much Strider meant to Merry. What if he spurned her once he knew the truth? Of her naive love for an indifferent man and unassailable despair at her lot? She felt ashamed of her own fury at the man, and yet she could not deny the pain he had caused her. She sighed. Merry would not to scorn her for her greatest shame, she could trust her companion to heal even this hurt. She hoped desperately that her own anger did not sully Merry’s opinion of Aragorn in turn, not wanting to ruin his lordliness and the hope that he represented in the Hobbit’s eyes. It was time.

“Aragorn broke my heart.” she spoke plainly, and as Merry was about to say something, she continued, “Not by failing to love me Merry, but by failing to see me.”

Merry had paused, and was considering her words. Éowyn continued.

“I’ve told only but you and Faramir of Wormtongue’s increasingly obsessive and forceful attempts to claim me. I was hopeless and despairing far before Aragorn, Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli arrived in Meduseld. My brother was imprisoned, and I had resolved to take matters into mine own hands and dispatch of Wormtongue myself. I was already set upon my own death, as Gríma’s murder would have meant my life too was forfeit. Then your companions came forth and cleansed my land of that pestilent man, and there Aragorn was, my rescuer. The love I felt was nearly obliging, it was aspirational, to become glorious through others’ glory. And yet, no matter how I tried, Aragorn refused to even see me.” a tear had formed in Éowyn’s eye, “I was merely a woman, my role was that of a woman, my purpose was that of a woman. I was not worth his love. But worse, I was not worth his esteem, not worth his respect, not worth his attention at all. To him, I was merely a lovelorn girl to be treated with disdain and pity, rather than a potential advisor, or a new friend. He did not trust me enough to tell me he could not love me, because he saw me only as a woman. I would never begrudge him for not returning my love, but he did not even return my esteem.”

Éowyn’s head dropped. Her shame. A love for a man who did not even seem capable of returning esteem for her, thinking her too weak to even consider beyond her womanhood. She pressed on, she needed Merry to understand.

“The realization that even the highest and most valorous of men would never see past the exterior of my womanhood to what lay beneath was a death blow to my hope. A final judgment on my person, and a clarifying of my fate, were the shadow to fall or no. I was exactly as Gríma had always claimed I was, useless save for my beauty and my ability to bear children. My sex was my cage, and one I could not escape. I would burn with the house once the men were dead and had no more use of it. And I could not abide that fate. So I picked up my shield and my sword, and was Éowyn no more. I was Dernhelm, who would fight for her people and earn honor and glory so often denied to my sex.” Éowyn looked at him now, the tears had receded, “Aragorn did not even wait for me to open my eyes after calling me forth from the shadow. So little I meant to him. All of Gríma’s efforts over the years to probe my heart’s armor for weaknesses, all those dents he was able to lay upon it, Aragorn’s scorn finally broke it all apart, and I was nearly broken beyond repair. Save for your and Faramir’s efforts and my brother’s will, I would have succumbed to the shadow, just to escape my despair, so broken I was.  
So, your Strider, I shall thank him for my life, because without his hand I would not have found my purpose to heal - a purpose that my sex does not preclude me from. And were it not for his hand I would not have gotten to call you my friend. I would not have found Faramir. Aragorn will be my King, and I will love him as a King, but I fear that I will only see Aragorn the man as the one who nearly broke me.”

There were tears in Merry’s eyes. He understood. He laid his hand on her’s, and they looked at each other. Then Merry let a small smile escape him, “Strider seemed to me perfect. I am glad to know even the highest have such flaws.” then he hugged her, “Éowyn, I am so sorry. You were never just a woman to me. You were a shieldmaiden high and noble, and you are a friend. You will never have doubt of my esteem. In my you have a friend forever.”

Then Merry paused, and a slightly mischievous grin appeared on his face, “Then perhaps you have now known love?”

Éowyn blushed, and looked away from him. But it was enough, her feelings were clear. Merry’s grin widened.

“Too much lies unresolved for me to think on such things,” Éowyn stuttered, “But perhaps yes, I have known love.”

“My lady, I must decline your generous offer of love and marriage, as I am but a halfling of the Shire,” Merry barely was able to make it to the end of the sentence without laughing, then his face turned solemn, “I think both of you have now known love. I sure hope that things resolve soon.”

Éowyn let out a snort of laughter, then the smile overtook her. She would love that Hobbit until her dying day. Both then sat in congenial silence as they ate the food and sipped the tea brought to them for their breakfast. Éowyn felt better for having unburdened herself of that final secret and shame, and was even more grateful to her little Hobbit for his understanding, and his kinship. She longed for Faramir’s presence too, and hoped that Merry’s perceptions of Faramir had been correct.

But then she began wondering at Merry’s question. Was it possible that she had shown her broken heart to both, and that both had misinterpreted its meaning? No. The love for Faramir was so clear upon her face she could not believe he would presume that her foolish crush on Aragorn could be mistaken for something real and abiding. And yet, the seed of doubt began to grow. Merry seemed to notice her distraction.

“He will know my lady. You have my word as a Hobbit and as your squire, he will know.” Merry patted Éowyn’s hand, but she was not so sure.

Two condemned prisoners seeking out comfort anywhere they could, that was how she had described them. Yet she now knew that her love for Faramir extended far beyond that place. She wondered if his did too. Seeded with doubt in the authenticity of her feelings tied in with the power of that place, Faramir might have abandoned his love the moment he was set free. Éowyn could feel a knot begin to form in her throat as she thought about it. With a squeeze to her hand, Merry drew Éowyn back to the present.

“I shall look forward to writing of the love of Faramir and Éowyn.” he looked into her eyes, willing the fear out of her.

“Even now in our time of hope, there is so much uncertainty Merry. If my brother fell, I must go back to Rohan to lead my people. Love or no love. I would never ask someone to leave their people and make that sacrifice for me,” said Éowyn

“Yet is it not a sacrifice we ask of womenfolk all the time? To abandon their lands and their people for their husbands? No wonder so many die of despair, we force new homes upon them and tie them to the hopes of the men they marry.” When had Merry become so insightful?

“All the more reason not to force such a fate on anyone, even if our love is deep and abiding,” Éowyn countered, “And the fates are on their way in the hands of the swiftest messengers. We will know before sundown.”

Merry squeezed Éowyn’s hand again, “I hope of the return of your brother to you, Éowyn. For I can think of no one more deserving of love than you. Other than perhaps Faramir.”

Éowyn closed her eyes, willing the messengers forward. She then looked upon Merry, and saw that he had pulled the parchment to him and inked his quill, “I have much more to write, and want to start working on a song to the ballad of the brave Shieldmaiden. I want Pip to start working on a melody… if he is alive.”

Éowyn nodded, and then looked out to the east. Hope had marched forth, and hope had returned, but awaiting the cost was exhausting. She hoped for her brother’s return. She hoped for Pippin, Sam and Frodo’s safety. She hoped for Faramir’s love. Suddenly, she felt caged in her waiting, and found she needed to do something.

“I hope you don’t mind Merry, but I needs must take my leave. My hands are idle, and I should go stir crazy with the waiting. I want to see if I can continue to shadow the healers, and see my hands put to some good use. Thank you, for everything. I will seek you out if letters reach us.” Éowyn again kissed Merry on the cheek, and departed.


	16. Chapter 16

As if she knew Éowyn’s mind, Ioreth was waiting for her, smile on her wizened face, “come my dear. I have heard from the Warden and the Steward that you wish to be an apprentice, and we have deemed you suitably healed to start. As you have already been shadowing me, we’ve agreed to have you continue. I’ve seen your skills with mine own eyes, and am so pleased to teach you!”

Éowyn nodded, though the mention of the Steward did cause a notable shift in her stomach. But this was not the time to dwell. Ioreth’s energy continued to be unquenchable, and Éowyn started to understand that Ioreth’s energy came from her drive to help others. The shadow had lifted off of the hearts of the patients, and many had been released, being deemed healed in spirit. There were not yet new injuries, and the ward was beginning to clear of all but the most grievously hurt, but there was still much to do. Ioreth sent Éowyn to the herb cabinet to mix a soothing salve for the man who had lost an ear. It was healing nicely, requiring far fewer bandage changes than the previous days.

Éowyn brought the salve, mixed from memory, and Ioreth gave it a sniff, “Nearly perfect, but please add one more crushed dandelion.”

Éowyn nodded, and hurried to fix her mixture. Upon her return, Ioreth gave it one more sniff, nodded her approval, and took a flat edged knife to the mixture and smoothed it over the man’s exposed flesh. Éowyn watched as his eyes drifted out of focus and a look of relief come over them. Éowyn smiled, helped Ioreth re-wrap his bandages, and gave the man her hand and smile, thanking him for his bravery.

Hours passed like the first one, Éowyn in Ioreth’s shadow, absorbing every word that came from her, whether they were about the herbs being used, the soothing whispers that could draw a patient from a nightmare, or the trouble they were having getting good mushrooms to make stew. Éowyn took it all in, relishing in this purpose.

“Your turn,” Ioreth pointed to one of the private rooms, “The night healers say that you are already acquainted with this Ranger.”

Éowyn paused, then remembered the man with the haunted eyes, the one that Faramir had drawn from his nightmares, and walked into the room. She had prepared another soothing salve, and saw her purpose. The Ranger had angry red welts on his wrists and ankles, from his thrashing at night. Éowyn immediately got to work. She decided to forego the knife, and work the salve into the man’s skin herself. She wondered if she should bandage these hurts. The ranger looked at her intensely. She wondered if he remembered her hand on his forehead, drawing him from his dreams.

“I have nightmares too,” Éowyn was compelled to speak these words, and immediately knew them to be the right ones, “Perhaps my strength is not so great that my thrashing cannot be subdued by the night healers.”

The man continued to look at her, then nodded sadly, “Even in this time of joy and hope, I wonder if these dark dreams will forever haunt me.”

“I do not know, for we can only hope that they subside over time. I am not sure any ever gets fully healed from that sort of hurt,” Éowyn worked the salve into the man’s wrist

He studied her raptly, “My Captain saved my life the day of our retreat. And last night, I thought I felt his hand pulling me away from those shadow dreams. When I will myself, I can see him behind me, protecting me from the worst of the fear.”

Éowyn smiled at this man, “I imagine the halfling, drawing his blade and striking the Nazgûl. It gives me strength.”

And then the ranger recognized her, and they shared a knowing look. Both knew the shape that the shadow took. He looked at her with reverence.

“I should hope that now I will also see you, Lady Éowyn Wraithbane, who laughed in the face of fear.” light came into his eyes now, “Your courage is an inspiration to us all.”

“Fear nearly felled me in that moment too,” Éowyn concentrated on his eyes, she wanted him to see her clearly as she said it, “Fear is nothing to be ashamed of. We cannot have courage if we feel not fear. Your fear of the shadow did not fell you, it drove you forward as much as the will of your Captain did. And so I say that your courage has brought you here, and your courage continues to will you awake in the morning. Courage is why you still bind your wrists and ankles at night, so that you do not bring harm to the healers. To me, that is what true courage looks like.”

The man smiled at her, and she moved on to rubbing the salve into his ankles, “would you like me to bandage these up? Or leave them free for you?”

“I should like them to be open to the air. We can put strong bandages upon them when it is time again for me to sleep, but the fresh air feels good on them,” the Ranger replied.

Éowyn nodded, and moved to the last ankle, “Keep concentrating on your Captain. For he is a man worthy of drawing forth your courage.”

The Ranger nodded to her, and she curtsied, bidding him farewell, and continued on to the next set of patients. Even as she left, she could feel this Ranger’s eyes upon her. She pictured the reverence in his eyes, at _her_ courage, and smiled. She would send word to Faramir to come and visit this man, for it seemed to her that the Steward also had gifts of healing beyond his own comprehension.

As she was making her way back to the great room, Éowyn noticed many new faces, making their way to patients and healers. _Messengers_ , she thought and hurried her footsteps forward. Before she had made it to them Ioreth blocked her path, a stern but nurturing look on her face.

“I know you are eager to get news that these men have brought, but before I can permit you to do so you must at least wash your hands and change your clothes.” Ioreth took an authoritative stance.

Éowyn was loath to pause even another second before knowing the fate held in the words of those men, but would not defy Ioreth. So she nodded and hurried off to her chamber, where a small tub of healer’s bath had been made ready for her, as well as a new dress. Éowyn hurriedly washed, and changed. Once she had finished, a hard eager wrapping was coming from her door. The word “enter” had barely made it past her lips when Merry bounded in. He was holding two letters.

“They’re alive! All of them! Pip and Sam and Frodo, and Strider and Gandalf and Legolas and Gimli! And this here is a letter from your brother Éowyn! He’s alive too!” Merry’s ebullience lit the entire room, and Éowyn nearly fell to her knees with relief. Her brother was alive. And _all_ the brave Hobbits!

“Do you have my brother’s letter?” Éowyn choked out before tears could overtake her.  
“Here it is my good lady! I was only tempted for but a moment to open it myself.”

Éowyn laughed with such fervor that she wondered if all her joy had been waiting for just this moment, in her final relief. Éowyn then opened the letter and saw her brother’s writing.

 

> Dearest Sister,
> 
> I desperately hope that my letter finds you alive, and perhaps even well. We’re victorious, and what a sight it was before the Black Gates. I thought all hope was lost, then a great tremor came upon the Earth and we saw the darkness falter, and all foes fled before us. Then the sun appeared and broke through, and all our hearts were light again. The Eagles came and brought with them the Hobbits Sam and Frodo, without whom we would never have found victory. Never have I heard such elation in battle cries, for the horns of victory sounded and the entire host sang for the light that had pierced our hearts. The joy in my heart lept save for my worry about you and your healing. There is nothing I wanted more in this world than for me to see you again, and see your smile.
> 
> Please come to me at the Cormallen to celebrate this wondrous news, for I need to see and know that you are whole. Holding you in my heart drove me forward, and I should want to be sure that in my hour of greatest triumph, I still get to share it with you. Nothing in this world is as dear to me as you are my beloved sister.
> 
> Love,  
>  Éomer

Éowyn trembled as she closed the letter. He was alive, and he was unharmed! She wanted to leave immediately to see Éomer, but just as desperately, she wanted to stay exactly where she was.

Éowyn looked at Merry, “are you going to join those heading to the Cormallen?”  
“Yes, my good lady. What about you?”

Éowyn hesitated. If she knew if she left now, she would get to see her brother sooner, but she would also leave Faramir behind, with so much left unsaid. She didn’t know how she knew, but she was sure that her departure on that day would preclude the future she so desired, the one with Faramir. In leaving now, she would become Éomer’s ward, returning to Rohan with him, While she would be able to form a House of Healing, her love to be given as the prize to a politically beneficial match. Her brother loved her dearly, and would not force this fate upon her. But she would not deny her beloved brother, the young and vulnerable new King, such a bargaining chip, even if she knew that her heart was now forever in the possession of the Steward. Leaving now meant abandoning her love for Faramir, and her hope for their future. She would not do that. Éomer was safe and whole, and could wait for their reunion.

“No, I think not just yet.” Éowyn looked at Merry, “May I borrow a quill and parchment? I need to write back to Éomer in haste. Would you do me the kindness of taking my letter and delivering it directly to my brother Merry?”

“Of course, my lady!” Merry grinned that knowing grin of his, “Are there any other messages you want me to convey personally?”

Éowyn caught his meaning, “Not at this juncture, no. Those sorts of revelations are ones that should only be made when they are set in stone, especially to an overprotective brother.”

Merry nodded, and gave her a fierce hug, “I pack now my lady, to head north. We head out tomorrow before dawn.”

“I wish you the swiftest steeds. Send my love to your kin and your companions, and especially to my brother. But make him promise that he is not to make you a Knight of the Mark until I am present too!” Éowyn pulled the small Hobbit in tighter, _as dear to me as kin, Merry._

Merry had run to his chamber and grabbed the items she needed, and Éowyn retired to her table with the borrowed parchment and ink. When she looked down at the blank paper, she decided that much needed to be left unsaid, for now.

 

> My dearest Éomer,
> 
> I cannot tell you of the lightness your letter brought to my heart. That you are alive and whole is one of the greatest gifts you could have given your sister. As your letter has given me such joy, so I can return it in kind. I am more whole and healed than I have been in a very long time. These Healing Houses are now truly dear to me, and I have resolved to become a healer. If there is some problem in your mind with my resolve, then I look forward to talking more about it with you in person. Alas, I am not yet ready to join you in your moment of triumph, and will remain here a while longer. Know that my love is with you, and that you will see a new Éowyn when we are at last reunited. Be merry, and please hold those Hobbits in the highest esteem. I daresay we should see fit to find the finest ponies in the Mark to give as gifts for their valor. And hail to the new and beloved King of Rohan! Your loving sister awaits you in Minas Tirith.
> 
> Love,  
> Éowyn

Éowyn knew that no matter what she wrote, more questions would be asked than answered, but decided that at least this part of the truth should be given to Éomer. Perhaps this would be the whole of it, if Faramir did not return Éowyn’s love. She went forth to find Merry and deliver her letter to him. Merry read it, and smiled.

“I will be the best messenger and squire I can possibly be for my lady,” Merry took her hand and placed a kiss upon it, “And now I request that you share one last sup with me before I take my leave.”

Éowyn laughed and nodded, then could not help herself but to look around for Faramir. He was nowhere to be found. _Odd_ , she thought, _That you would have gone and not taken leave Faramir._ His absence worried her, but this one last meal with her dear Hobbit supplanted the concerns of his absence. Éowyn and Merry ate greedily in the garden, sharing their plans for the future. Merry’s pack was bursting with parchments and tobacco leaves and the last bit of chocolate he had clearly sweet-talked out of the healers. He was keen to talk with Frodo and Sam, and to get a full account of the battle from Pippin.

“I will also tell the tale of the Shieldmaiden for all to hear,” Merry winked, “Just because you have other things you must attend to here does not mean that you and your tale will not be heard and sung amongst the host.”

“You are the finest of friends and squires, Meriadoc the Courageous,” Éowyn let a tear slip from her eye, and leaned into Merry to give his cheek a kiss. Merry looked deeply into her eyes, and she wondered if he read her anguish over the Steward.

“Don’t worry Éowyn. I saw the Steward’s eyes as plain as you did. I shall expect to be invited to your wedding.” Merry winked and his voice was full of hope, then he took a bow and off he went, out of the House of Healing.

 _And then amongst the three companions, there was but one,_ mused Éowyn, and she turned toward her bedchamber. Once there, she looked out her window and saw the stars. She wondered how long it had been since she had seen stars so bright and vibrant.

_ Thank you Elbereth, for delivering my brother, safe and whole, _ Éowyn stared out into the welcoming blackness, blew out her candle, and settled down to sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

Éowyn awoke to the sun streaming through her window. She smiled at the kiss of its warmth, and opened her eyes, and rose from her bed. Éowyn saw that her usual white dresses were waiting for her, and that the mantle Faramir had given her was now hanging in a wardrobe. The stars on the mantle reflected the sunlight, sending a hopeful sparkle throughout the room. He wouldn’t have given her such a gift if there was no love there, would he? On her bedside table was the lavender, and the token. The leather strap down laid next to her brush. No, she had to believe that he loved her, as she loved him. The thought of it brought a smile to her face. She’d wear his leather in her braid again today. Éowyn changed into the white dress, then braided her hair, absorbing the scent of Faramir as she tied in the leather strap. She wondered if today would be the day. She was ready.

Éowyn left her chamber, and found Ioreth who smiled at her coming, “Your schedule is normalizing my dear! I’m glad you take well to routine, for today will be about the same as yesterday. The Warden would also like to have a meeting with you, as your desire to be an apprentice means we need to set you up to learn the scholarship of the healing arts.”

“I am gleeful for it!” Éowyn beamed, though she snuck a look around for the raven haired Steward. He was not there.

Ioreth studied her, wearing a faint smile. Éowyn blinked any disappointment away, and turned to start her rounds. First to the herb cabinet to make the soothing salve, which she would be applying to the nearly-healed man’s ear.

“Ioreth? We are running low on dandelions,” Éowyn called, “I’ve lessened the mixtures I’m making slightly so that we might have enough for all the charges for rounds today, but I think you should have the Warden ask for new herbs.”

“That we will do girl! The Steward has already begun tasking our usual scouts with finding herbs. He wanted to make we have all we need for the returning injured. I will add dandelions to their list.” Éowyn’s gut dropped by the mention of the Steward. If he had tasks in the House of Healing, why had he not been to see her? Éowyn’s worries were blossoming into doubts. Before she let those doubts further germinate, she turned to Ioreth.

“Can you also make note that one of the Ithilien Rangers is still within our walls, and I believe he would improve if the Steward came to see him?” Éowyn thought of the man with the haunted eyes, and his dreams. Éowyn wanted to add something else to the note to the Steward:  _ that Éowyn would like to declare her love for him _ , but she held her tongue.

Ioreth looked at her appraisingly, “that I can do girl, though I daresay our poor Steward finds himself with more work than time!”

“He’ll come, if he knows that his hands will heal,” was Éowyn’s reply.

Ioreth nodded at her, and made note of it. Continuing the rounds, Éowyn now undressed and redressed the bandages of the afflicted, and Ioreth instructed her on how to create a sleeping draught. 

Then with a wink, Ioreth showed Éowyn how to create an elixir for those who had had too much drink. The celebrations around the city meant that some merrymakers had overindulged. Éowyn watched as Ioreth gave each in turn the bitter-tasting elixir, then scolded them for their irresponsibility, “the elixir does not have to be bitter, I just think it helps harden the lesson.” Éowyn laughed.

In the middle of Éowyn’s shift, a workman from the fourth level was brought in after a damaged archway had given way above him. His arm had been crushed. The healers quickly got to work. Éowyn lingered on the periphery, watching as they masterfully reset the man’s bones, entombed it within a hard case, then bandaged it together.  She marked every hand movement, every gesture, every herb passed. Ioreth asked Éowyn to feed the workman a sleeping draught, and she relished in making it, then handing it to the man. The workman’s expression went from fear and pain to relief under their care. Éowyn beamed. This to her would be a good life.

After they had patched up their newest charge, Éowyn made her way into the Ranger’s room with the soothing salve. He was awake and waiting for her, and he smiled when she walked through his door.

“The White Lady of Rohan I have now heard you called. Why do you tarry here, when the celebrations are in the fields?” the Ranger was bold. Éowyn wondered if this was the practice of the men of Ithilien. To consider how she wanted to answer his question, Éowyn went about her healer’s work, appraising his wounds, then dressing them. They were slightly less angry than yesterday.

“Yes, the celebrations are in the field, as is my brother and your King, but I am finding that I prefer the small triumphs in this place when the bandages come off for good. Crying celebrations out in song ignores that there are still battles being fought,” Éowyn replied, “My sword was my escape from the cage of a noble woman. Here in this House I found my purpose. I prefer these small battles to those grand celebrations.”

_ And my love _ , she thought. The Ranger’s expression subtly changed as she thought it, and she wondered if her love for Faramir was betrayed on her face. She had the feeling that the perceptive blood of Númenor could read her heart, now that she had let it open again.

But where was her raven haired Steward? Had he taken her hesitancy as a sign that her love belonged to someone else?  _ Aragorn.  _ Éowyn could feel ice rising in her stomach at the thought.

“You are wise,” he looked at her, “Gondorians never took enough stock in their allies to the north, or the valor there. You’ve come to our aid in our hour of greatest need and turned the battle to save us. And now we find the greatest of you healing our wounds.”

“Only me, for now.” Éowyn replied, the conversation was formal yet also strangely intimate.

“What of your future?” he was bold indeed.

“I’ll return to my home, hopefully bringing healing with me. I reckon I will marry some great Lord of the Mark there, to help my brother seal allies and rebuild our realm. Unless I find that the love I have in my heart is requited,” Éowyn was not sure why she sharing such intimate things, but something in the man with the haunted eyes told her she could.

“Is that also what you wait for?” the man asked

“No,” Éowyn replied,  _ Yes. _

“I am no more than a Ranger of Gondor, but I can see plainly your quality. Any man who does not see that should never deserve such a gift as you, White Lady of Rohan,” perhaps Éowyn had put too much poppy into that soothing salve…

“Why do you speak so boldly to me, good Ranger?” Éowyn knew men to be bold in their pursuit of her beauty, but she felt no threat from this man.

“I live under the shadow every night, and will myself to wake up for the hope that I will see my wife and children again. Speaking formally has done naught for my nightmares, yet speaking to you, I feel lifted. Two nights in a row and I have not screamed or nearly swallowed my tongue,” he spoke plainly, and Éowyn found deep respect for the his honesty, “You and Captain Faramir are the only two whose healing has made tomorrow seem less horrible than today. I should like to know those who have done me such a great service.”

Éowyn blushed, and smiled, “Tell me of your wife and children, Ranger of Gondor”

“My name is Beregil, White Lady.” Beregil smiled, “I’d be honored to hear my name spoken by she who laughed at fear itself.”

“Well, Beregil, I shall rejoice if you tell me your tales,” Éowyn replied, feeling the smile upon her face, and a calm that effused her to soothe this man.

And so she sat and listened to his story. Beregil’s wife had taken their children and fled across the mountains before the onslaught, and he had yet to hear from them. The healers had promised to alert him immediately if his family emerged unharmed from their hiding place. And word had been given to the guards of his whereabouts so his family would know where to seek him. She could hear his sadness, and it moved her to pity. But his tone was lightening merely with her continued presence, so she continued to sit and to listen. Of Beregil’s encounter with a Mumak, and how his son would have squealed to see such a beast. Of the white hot fear he felt when his wife was giving birth to their second child. Of the letters they wrote when he was on assignment. Suddenly, a clucking of Ioreth’s tongue let Éowyn know it was time to move on. Éowyn smiled and took her leave.

“It is not often I have seen him alight like that, so I let you stay there. Lifting spirits is as much a part of a healer’s work as healing wounds, and I do think you lifted him today higher than he has been lifted. The Steward will be pleased.” Ioreth said, and with the title Éowyn started.

“Has- has the Steward been in contact?” Éowyn turned white

“Yes, he came by personally to pick up the Warden’s notes. I believe the dandelions have already been restocked.” Ioreth was speaking, but Éowyn was not hearing.

_ He did not seek me out. In fact, he is doing the opposite. _ The realization stabbed Éowyn in her heart. The blossoming doubt swarmed throughout her, and she was left listless. All obstacles had been removed from their path. She would not have to return to Rohan to lead her people. She could marry Faramir and heal Ithilien by his side. But perhaps that was not what he wanted. Perhaps he sought comfort from her as they stood awaiting their doom and death, but now the reality of his station had hit him, and he knew better than to marry a wild shieldmaiden of the north. No, he did not seek her because he feared that she had reserved her heart for another. The one who broke it. Éowyn’s limbs felt heavy.

“Are you alright girl?” Ioreth was trained to see pain both in limb and in heart, and Éowyn’s was clear to see.

“My heart is heavy, but it is lifted when I can use my hands to heal,” no use in lying, though she did not dare reveal the entire truth, though Ioreth likely guessed.

“The Steward made his way to Beregil’s room, and I think overheard you two talking. He lingered outside the door for a while, though I am not sure to what end,” Ioreth looked thoughtfully at Éowyn as he spoke, “He seems to have taken your note to heart. I’ve no doubt that he will be back.”

Ioreth had hope in her eyes, but Éowyn could not look at her. Why did Faramir not seek her? If only she could talk to him, all would be made clear. And yet, to declare her love for him if it was unrequited would only bring both of them hurt. If Faramir could not love her back would feel her pain as his, so gentle was his person. No, she would have to wait for him. But what if he never came? What if he had so assured himself that she loved Aragorn that he would never come?

Éowyn thought of the mantle, and felt crushed by it. She had accepted it as a gift, as a sign of his heart, but perhaps it was a gift given to see one lovely and sad as his mother wearing it before the end? And now that hope had returned, he had given high gift to one who was not to be his future wife. Éowyn could feel a tear threatening to break through her eyelid. Ioreth seemed to have caught her mood.

“Well my dear, my rounds are over for the day, as are your’s. I have sent for a healer’s bath for you, which you should take. You’ve done well today, and after you’ve bathed, please see the Warden to start collecting the books that we will have you read for your apprenticeship.” Ioreth pinched Éowyn’s cheek, then leaned in to whisper the last words, motherly care in her voice, “People will need your healing tomorrow, as they did today, and as they did yesterday.”

With that, Ioreth turned from her and walked out the corridor, leaving Éowyn in privacy. Éowyn let her legs carry her back to her room, barely aware of where they were leading, and took the leather strap from her hair. A token? She was no longer sure. Perhaps it was not a token to him, but it certainly was a token to her. Passively, she followed the healer’s assistant to her designated bath, and lowered herself into it.

Now that she had felt the nurturing warmth of real love, she feared she would never be able to offer such love to another, and that realization pained her deeply. She could only see two pathways before her now. One led back to Rohan, with her brother. She wondered if she could convince him to let her stay unmarried, taking care of her nieces and nephews, and working on healing the people and the land. Her renown as Wraithbane could be useful, even if she was loath to offer her marriage hand. And Éomer would never force her to marry against her will, not after all they had been through with both their mother and Wormtongue. But could she deny her brother such a precious diplomatic option? Sealing an alliance with her marriage? Could she find happiness, even if she had to abdicate hope that she would be able to fully love any husband who was not Faramir? She did not have the heart to think upon it.

The other pathway was the pathway she desperately desired; Faramir’s wife and mother to their children. The desire for it was so palpable she wondered if others around her could feel it. She wanted to seek Faramir out and demand that he speak to her plainly. She would tell him of her deep abiding love and let him decide what came next. She was Éowyn Wraithbane of the House of Eorl, her blood sang with the nobility of both Rohan and Gondor, and yet she wondered, for such a noble man as Faramir, if even that was enough. Perhaps he loved her back, but knew that he could never sink so low as to marry her. Éowyn lowered herself deeper into her bath at that thought. Perhaps those poisoned words of Gríma held some keen truth, that the most noble of Gondor could not look upon the stock of Rohan as equals. Lord Aragorn had not even viewed her as a person. Perhaps Faramir’s pity came to the same end, enough for days before doom but not enough for hope returning to Middle Earth. Éowyn let sobs escape her from below the surface of the water.

Éowyn waited for her sorrow to abate before she surfaced, grabbing her lavender soap. Its scent broke her from her despair. No, this sorrow would not do. She was not her mother, and would not fade when the only love she could abide was taken from her. Éowyn would love Faramir, but she would not forget her vow. It did not matter if he did not love her back, she was more than a maiden waiting to be rescued. She was a warrior who saved her people and the people of Gondor, defeating fear. She was a healer, and so she would be a healer, whose enemy now was death. She would dedicate all her waking hours to the healing arts, and would tell Éomer that his choice was to make her healer in Rohan and create a House of Healing or return without her. Healing made her feel nearly as good as the fire in Faramir’s eyes, and far greater than wielding a sword.

Éowyn rinsed her hair and raised herself out of her healer’s bath. She pulled on her cloak and her slippers, and headed back through the corridors to her chamber. In her room, she dressed in her white gown, now shining with the light of the rising moon. Still the White Lady of Rohan. Éowyn combed her hair, and put on a robe, but before she set off to the Warden, the gleam of little silver stars found their way to her eyes. Faramir’s mantle was lighting up under the sky, and Éowyn choked down a whimper. Could he have really given her such a gift if there was not love there? Perhaps he could. But the stars on that mantle carried some insistence for her that she should not abandon hope. Not just yet.

Éowyn looked defiantly at the mantle, then at the lock of her hair tied in leather. At some point, she would need to surrender the hope that both of those items had meaning beyond those special days before the darkness receded.  But they could stay here with her for now, for she had not abandoned hope just yet. Finally, she turned away from them and walked through her door to find the Warden.

Éowyn found the Warden’s door open, and he smiled at her warmly upon seeing who it was.

“Lady Éowyn, you are a vision of health!” the Warden beamed at her, “We are not used to such noble guests asking for our teachings, but it is an honor to have you. Ioreth has had nothing but praise for you, and our Steward has spoken of you with nothing but the highest regard. I should think us the lucky ones to have found you. Please sit.”

Éowyn was getting better at disguising her face at the mention of Steward, but saw the Warden’s face change ever so slightly when he had said ‘Steward.’ Both ignored it. The Warden motioned to a small pile of books on his desk, “these are the first sets of healer’s books, mostly detailing the concoction of simple herbal remedies, and the most common injuries that need to be addressed. Please read through them at your leisure. I have also provided ink and quill should you want to make some notes. The Steward has had these books printed specially for you, as our gift for the wondrous gift you have given us by slaying that foul thing.”

Éowyn flushed, this was too much. Faramir had made copies of books for her, and had given them to her through a messenger? Éowyn felt her facade cracking at this insult, but she would hold it together.

“Thank you Warden. This gift is great indeed. My dream is to take a House such as this to my home, so these books are needed. I will study them fervently.” Éowyn smiled and curtsied, and when she thought that she had lingered sufficiently long for decorum, took the books and the writing utensils and walked with haste to her chamber.

Fury and sadness welled up in her, and broke through. Why had he not sought her out himself? Why give her such a gift but not face her? Éowyn let herself feel the fear, that Faramir was trying to spare her feelings. And yet, his absence was making it all worse. A page knocked on her door as she collected herself, and brought her a small tray with dinner. She accepted it kindly, and made herself eat what was given to her. She would not let despair take her over these men. Aragorn’s scorn had been bad, Faramir’s was markedly worse.

_ A healer’s love raises her patients. I do not need the love of a man, and I can survive their scorn. _ Éowyn repeated these words to herself as she finished the soup that had been brought. She then settled her breath, and looked at the first book “A Healer’s Guide to Herbal Remedies.” She did not care who gave her this book, she would read it cover to cover. For she could heal others, even while she waited for her own heart to heal.

Éowyn read until the candle burned low, and the stars out her window insisted she fall asleep. She finally gave in, but repeated what she had learned, using her new understanding of healing to force out the feelings of sorrow at Faramir’s considerate inconsideration.

Lily of the Valley. Effective for sleeping draughts, but use carefully, as it turns to poison very easily.  
Fir needles. Excellent for reviving one who has fainted.  
Thistle. To give to women during painful times in their moon cycle  
…and then Éowyn was asleep.


	18. Chapter 18

She was underwater, struggling to break the surface, and three faces glared down at her. One was a woman, with flaxen hair. The other two were dark haired and gray eyed men. She cried for help, but her voice was muffled by the black water. She tried to struggle to surface and begged the figures to pull her to her rescue, but the woman just looked on passively at her panic. One of the dark haired men turned away, and Éowyn could feel herself sinking. She tried to break the surface, tried to yell for help, but again, she could do little to fight as the black depths took her. Then suddenly a hand burst into the water and grabbed her, and pulling her above the surface. His hands were on her waist, lifting her effortlessly into the air. His hair was raven and his gray eyes were filled with fire.

“I would never let the White Lady drown,” He set her down. His voice was quiet and his lips were soft and loving upon her brow. And then his lips were upon hers and his arms were around her, and she hungrily sought his mouth...

Éowyn woke softly with the first light of sunrise. She wanted to close her eyes and return to her dream, to Faramir. But the flicker of recognition of his name burned into her, and she vaulted up.  _ Faramir _ , who gave her his mother’s mantle and leather-bound books, and yet would not be in her presence. Éowyn’s cheeks reddened. And she was awake. She brushed her hair and looked at the leather strap. No, she would not wear her hair braided today. She dressed in one of the white gowns, then looked at the mantle, its stars glittering in the sunlight.  _ You can glisten all you want, but we both know that your light burns when touched. _ Éowyn turned away from it. Maybe tonight she would demand her answers, even if it hurt Faramir to know her love. Even if she had to spar with Citadel guards to get to the Steward. She was not sure she could wait for him any longer.

Éowyn opened her chamber and walked to the corridor, finding Ioreth sitting at the desk with another healer. Ioreth called Éowyn forward.

“Breakfast, my dear,” Ioreth gestured to the small trays of food on the table, “It is the energy that keeps healers on their feet the entire day. Please take some.”

Éowyn smiled gratefully at the healers and dug into the bread and jam, more modest than what had been prepared for her when she was a healing noble guest, but still quite good.

“Thank you Ioreth. So what shall we be doing today?” Éowyn could hear happiness in her voice, as her desire to heal overcame her confusion and fury at the raven haired Steward.

“Same as yesterday, I reckon. First we will look upon the healing of the workman’s bones and check his injuries for infection,” Ioreth watched as Éowyn gulped the last of her tea, and then they were off.

_ Lily of the valley. Fir needles. Thistles. Dandelion. Athelas. Knot grass. Birch root.  _ Éowyn remembered their names and uses in kind as she followed Ioreth. She now was quite good at making the soothing salves, and Ioreth was excited to teach her to make a poultice. Éowyn saw that there was more complexity to such a concoction, where ingredients and timing were important, and reminded herself to take note of it in her book.  _ No _ , not the book Faramir gave her,  _ her book _ .

The workman was drowsy, and the healers did not like the red shade his arm was becoming, calling for Éowyn and the poultice. Ioreth took a sniff of Éowyn’s mixture, nodded her approval, then the healers set to work.

“We need to draw out the angry infection. Nothing too concerning yet, but another day of that color and we will start to worry.” Ioreth used her hands to sculpt the poultice and place it where she saw the most need. Éowyn observed that the healers concentrated the poultice in places that were either the most red or had notes of white. She took note of it in her mind.

After rebandaging the workman, the rounds continued in the same routine as yesterday, and Éowyn was hard pressed not to let her mind wander to Faramir. No, she would think on Faramir later, and decide what she had to do then. Healing others was more important than her love, and her dejection.

Hours passed and the haze in her mind cleared. She saw she was to Beregil’s room. Éowyn had not yet mixed his soothing salve, so she retreated to the herb closet. As her hands worked, she let her mind wander. Faramir had been listening to their conversation yesterday? To what end? Her indignation at his intrusion was met with confusion and despair. She did not know what had happened after the darkness lifted to spur Faramir to avoid her, and it was killing her inside. To be in the presence of a man who regarded him so highly would be hard, but she was a healer. She would not let her own despair distract her from her mission. So Éowyn went forth.

Beregil smiled as she approached, “it is good to see you, White Lady of Rohan.”  
Éowyn smiled back, but it did not reach her eyes, and Beregil noticed.

“What has brought you to my room with such sorrow in your heart?” she was going to like getting out of Gondor if so many could read her so plainly. She set to work rubbing the salve into Beregil’s welts, and for the third day in a row noted how much better they were looking.

“I fear that the one I love does not appear to love me back,” Éowyn decided to speak the truth at the root of her fear to Beregil, “Worse even than this, he has stopped coming to me at all, not even as a friend. And yet my heart still tells me to have hope, though my mind does not. I dreamt of him for the first time last night, and the dream was of hope. I don’t know what it means.”

Beregil considered this for a minute before responding, “Are you sure that it is out of scorn that he does so, rather than out of something else, such as fear?”

“I do not know, for without his company, I cannot read his meaning.” Éowyn wanted to say  _ it’s Faramir. He is who is bringing me this sorrow from his absence _ , but stayed her words. Those were not words that would help Beregil find his healing.

“A man came to my room, as stricken and pained as you are now. He came to heal me, and yet his despair was apparent. He too found the one he loved but came to believe she did not love him back. Yet something in his heart told him not to give up hope. And neither do I,” something twinkled in Beregil’s eyes, “I wonder if you, like he, just came together with those that you loved and said it plainly, would your despair be healed. I still await word of my wife and my children, and I would give everything I have to tell them just one more time that I love them.”

Instinctively, Éowyn laid down her salve and took Beregil’s hand. Realizing what she was doing, she reddened slightly. Was such an intimate gesture proper? Éowyn paused at this, and decided she cared not. This small gesture made her feel lifted, and she could see that her touch lifted Beregil as well.

“Have hope that you will see my wife and children again, so you can make up for all those ‘I love you’s that you have not yet said,” Éowyn looked thoughtfully into Beregil’s eyes, “I shall light a candle and pray for their return. For the Valar have blessed us with a time of hope.”

“I will my lady,” Beregil smiled at her, “As this is a time of hope, perhaps you should let your heart lead you.”

Éowyn took his meaning. She also suspected that the man whom Beregil mentioned had raven hair and had given her a mantle. It quickened her heart and buoyed her hope. Tonight she would storm the tower of the Steward if she had to and would demand an audience with Faramir. His pain at her unrequited love would be nothing compared to losing hope in one another. She would not lose his friendship, and would not let a chance at love pass them both by. It was time share the last of her secrets with him; the secret brought her the most shame. One that Merry had not abandoned her for. Tonight Faramir would know how it came to pass that Aragorn broke her heart.

“Thank you Beregil, you’ve given me my resolve to not let my fear overcome my hope. As I finish applying this salve to you, please tell me more of your family, or of whatever it is in this time that brings you joy and healing,” Éowyn smiled and her heartbeat quickened as she made her decision.

“Actually lady, perhaps you can tell me one of your own tales that brings you joy,” Beregil replied.

Éowyn paused, then closed her eyes and saw Windfola and the Westfold. She saw her beloved brother, and the mad grins on their faces as their hair whipped in the breeze.

“So be it, I shall tell you a story of the time I won my race against my brother.” and Éowyn regaled the tale of her pony race with Éomer through the golden fields in the fall, being cheered on by their cousin and uncle.

Before she knew it, Beregil was patched and ready for his nightly battle with his dreams.

“Beregil, have you started to see those visions you need to calm you in your sleep?” Éowyn could not help but ask the question, thinking upon her own dream that morning.

“Yes, I see you, and I see Faramir. Your white light and laughter shine like a shield against the onslaught of darkness, and his words propel me forward. It has not destroyed my fits, but it has diminished them greatly. I should hope to keep seeing both of you, for the freshness of the memory of you seems to have the strongest effect.” Éowyn again marveled at his honesty, and also marked the admission, so the Steward  _ was _ visiting his Ranger.

“I will be back tomorrow then,” Éowyn said, “Though it appears tonight I must go into battle for my heart. Wish me luck, that the guards of the Citadel do not spear your brave shieldmaiden before she is able to reveal her love.”

Beregil’s smile lit the room, “I will wish you the greatest of haste and luck.”

With one final deep and appreciative curtsy, Éowyn swept from Beregil’s room. She then walked to Ioreth, who released her from her duties for the day and to her healer’s bath. Éowyn thanked her, and made her way into the bath chamber.

_I will not give up this fight Faramir,_ she thought. Faramir would not get to run away from her again, and he would know all that was in her heart. She did not fear his rejection anymore, only that he would stop seeing her as a friend. And it was that that Éowyn feared above all the rest. That he who brought her healing and love, who opened her heart was lost to her. Aragorn was never open to her, as love or as friend, and though that blow hurt her deeply, it did not even register compared to losing the deep companionship that she’d found in this House with the raven haired Steward. Guttural fear overcame her at that thought, that he was letting her down easily as he returned to his duties and his people. She would simply refuse to oblige him. Losing his friendship was too devastating, surely he could see that.

Éowyn would not wait for a message that she was calling upon him. She would ask, nay, demand, that the Warden escort her directly to him, and would not leave until he granted her an audience. She did not care if she had to wait for Faramir for hours, for his friendship and being in her life was too important to her. Yes, she would let him know all that was in her heart, and would hope he felt the same. But if he did not, she would also fight for their friendship. Love and fire could be channeled through healing hands, one who understood her pain and her hope could not be. And so as she scrubbed her hair with her lavender soap, Éowyn was resolved. After she dressed, she would march to the Warden and battle his will. As like last time, she had no doubt that she would prevail and be on her way to the Steward.

Éowyn pulled herself from the bath and dried herself off, looking at her face in the mirror. The stern resolve that had overcome her when she realized she would become Dernhelm was in her face yet again. She smiled. This time she was marching not toward death and glory, but toward love. Éowyn made it back to her room, and paced it. Looking challengingly at the mantle, which was glittering defiantly at her again, reflecting the moon’s light.

_ I will see what is written in your stars tonight, _ she said to it. And she combed out her hair. She then looked at the books, and the lavender, and the leather strap. She grabbed the strap and smelled it deeply, then placed it back softly on the book, fingering the edge she had hewn off to make her favor. Éowyn exhaled, then looked at the door, and marched toward it. One more deep breath, and she pushed it open.

Someone was standing outside, pacing, someone tall, with raven hair, and the build of an archer. She could see his gray eyes burning in the candlelight of her room.  _ Faramir. _


	19. Chapter 19

Faramir had frozen in place at her sudden appearance, his face was pale.  
“I- I- hadn’t heard you,” Éowyn blanched

As if struck across the face by her words, Faramir looked down at his feet, then looked again at Éowyn, horrified, “Muff- muffled footsteps. Éowyn, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean-”

Éowyn looked at him questioningly, then realized why he thought she had turned pale.  _ Muffled footsteps _ . No no no! This was not how their revelation was supposed to start! She steadied herself. There was no person in the world she wanted to see more than him at this moment. She hoped he could read that on her face, stricken as his features were. Éowyn moved her body aside, and invited Faramir through her door. When he took her invitation, Éowyn looked out beyond in the corridor, and closed the door behind them. He was here. He had come to her.

“What has brought you to haunt my doorstep this night Faramir?” Éowyn tried to sound tranquil, but she could not keep the delight and amusement out her voice. Her heart was beating out of her chest. His sudden appearance had thrown her, but did not change what she would say to him. In fact, it intensified it. Suddenly, the reality of this, the man she loved behind her closed door hit her, and the air in her room became heavy.

“I had to see you,” Faramir’s words rushed from his mouth.

“Please sit,” Éowyn gestured toward her bed. Faramir followed and sat down. Why had she suddenly become so formal? She knew what she wanted to say, but the words escaped her in that moment, with him in front of her. On her bed. Éowyn went to the small chair in her room, where she sat while her companions had told her of the bravery of Sam and Frodo. She smiled, then looked at Faramir’s desperate and probing eyes.

“Éowyn, I-” Faramir paused. Perhaps he was having as much trouble finding the words as she was. He steadied his breath, then exhaled, “why do you tarry here?”

Éowyn felt her muscles tense. Did he really not know? What was he asking her? She wanted to be a healer. She knew that the longer she stayed in the House of Healing, the more sure that pathway was when her brother came  to Minas Tirith to claim her. But she knew more than that, she stayed for  _ him. _ She stayed because she wanted to be near him, she wanted to touch him, she wanted to laugh with him and share her sorrows and joy  _ with him. _ Had she never made it plain?

“Do you not know?” Éowyn tried to keep the incredulity out of her voice. She failed.  
“I- I- don’t know. I thought… that you would go to the fields... to see... your  _ brother _ ,” Faramir’s gaze was intense. He was begging her with his eyes to see his whole meaning. There it was.

“And Lord Aragorn,” Éowyn said it calmly, and saw Faramir flinch.  _ Aragorn. _ The question was there all along. And it was as if the question had been answered by not speaking of it. That Aragorn broke her heart. That she had fled her people and her station because he walked away from her. Her greatest shame. The secret she had not told had been a weight on him through all their healing. Éowyn sighed, “It is time for me to tell you my last secret Faramir. The one that brings me more shame than I thought could be healed.”

Faramir imparted a piercing look at her, but Éowyn did not look away. She studied his eyes, and she saw it all. Fire, apprehension, love, but mostly, fear.

_ You do not need to fear my heart Faramir. I just pray that you will still love me after all is clear _ , Éowyn smiled at him. She had strength to risk this tale, because there would be no more secrets between her and Faramir. Be they friend or lovers, they were past a time of secrets.

“Lord Aragorn broke my heart,” Éowyn looked intently into his eyes, and saw them flicker, as if her words had spoken to Faramir’s deepest fear, “But not because he ever had my love. He broke my heart by not seeing me as a person, but merely as a woman.”

Éowyn sighed. Had she been paying more attention, she would have seen that her words had taken Faramir by complete surprise, and delight. But instead, she focused on her own hands, which were trembling as she started to find the words she wanted to say, to explain.

“I ran away from my home. From my people. From my responsibilities. Because of Aragorn’s indifference. He came to Meduseld and he liberated me from my humiliating fate. He rescued my uncle with Gandalf, and returned him to whole. He gave me back my brother. He gave me back my  _ life. _ My  _ hope _ . Then, as I tried to stretch my wings and take measure of this wondrous man who had given me such a gift, he threw me back into my cage. He noted my affection as that of a naive young girl, and in that he was right. I’d known only obsession from the attentions of Gríma and love of kin, I’d never so much as experienced a crush. And he took that naivety on my part and he bound me with it, refusing to see me beyond it. No matter what words I said, in infatuation, in friendship, in respect, they were met with scorn.” Éowyn could feel her tears beginning to collect, and focused on the sleeve of her dress, which she was worrying. She willed herself to continue, “When not even the highest and mightiest lord in Middle Earth can recognize that you are more than your sex, it is devastating. Every foul word Gríma had ever said to me came flowing back - they were all true. I was but a woman. With no more to offer a man than my beauty, and my … body. And to men such as Aragorn, that was no prize. Never in my life had I felt so hopeless as when he rode away toward the Path of the Dead. Not the cursed night in the stables. Not the day of my cousin’s death. Not even the day of my father’s. So I made a choice. No more would Éowyn, merely a woman, dwell, and wait for doom to arrive and burn her with the house. I became Dernhelm, and I rode away from Meduseld. Away from the circumstance that would doom me. And I would seek my death, and my escape.”

Éowyn shuddered once again, she felt sick at herself, as she had when she looked back at the shrinking Edoras. Only Merry’s company when she was Dernhelm had calmed the self-loathing. Éowyn sighed, “I abandoned my station and my people to escape my fate Faramir. I don’t deserve the love of any high Lord, I deserve scorn. and perhaps I deserve pity. I deserve the shame that this memory brings me. That I hid behind a helm to ride to my death and seek the glory that would forever be denied me as a woman, at the expense of my people’s wellbeing.”

Éowyn trembled, and did not dare look up at Faramir. The depth of her anger at Aragorn, and the shame that this truth had driven her away from her people, toward her own death. She pressed on, only a little bit more.

“Aragorn broke my heart by confirming that all I would ever be was a woman. Unable to escape my cage no matter who I was or what valor I earned. He did not even linger to watch me open my eyes when he drew me back from the shadow,” Éowyn swallowed down the tears that were rising up in her throat, “My heart is strong enough to be denied love, especially when it is unearned and false. But denying my humanity. It cast such a great shadow upon me, that I defied everything to seek my escape from it. I don’t deserve my praise, for my choice was selfish and cowardly.”

Éowyn had not even realized Faramir had crossed the room until she felt a soft hand on her chin, and when she looked up, found herself eye-to-eye with the raven haired Steward. His eyes held more intensity than she had ever seen in them, and now it was clear to her. Love was in his eyes.

“Éowyn, as I live and breathe, you are the most remarkable person I have ever met,” Faramir stroked Éowyn’s jaw, and there was softness and love in his touch, but now there were tears in his eyes, “Even in believing you abandoned your people you show yourself to have such compassion for others as to be boundless. You did not flee your people, White Lady, you fled your cage, a humiliating cage that even the greatest of us should feel shame for relegating you to. Then you showed yourself to be capable of valor greater than any man. Was it not your courage and love that saved the rest of us from the Nazgûl? She who laughed at Fear itself. Every day since we met I’ve marveled at my luck for getting to be near you. For knowing you. For loving you.”

Faramir stopped when he said the last, and dropped his hand from her chin. He looked suddenly shy, the small boy again, and dropped his gaze from her’s. But he’d now said it, and she knew that the love had been there all along. The tears in Éowyn’s eyes swelled again, but this time it was for her joy for hearing those words from him. She was about to tell him all that was in her heart when he expelled a shuddering sigh.

“I have been a fool.” Faramir’s words came out barely above a whisper, “I let the haunts of my mind nearly deny my heart’s greatest desire Éowyn. So afraid I was of your denial of my love that I fell into the trap of denying you your humanity, the very source of much of your despair. Since meeting you, not a minute has gone by that I have not been thinking about you.”

Éowyn’s hand found Faramir’s cheek, and she could feel him tremble under her touch. Finally he turned his eyes to look at her again, the fear and love still intermingling. This was it, time for her heart to be laid bare.

“My heart has been captured by a singular man, Faramir. To know him is to love him. To have him know me has been a blessing beyond any I should think I deserve. For I love you Faramir, Steward of Gondor,” Éowyn looked fervently into his eyes, “Promise me that whatever comes next, you will never seek to avoid me again. Being denied your love is endurable, being denied your friendship would break me.”

“One thing I will never be able to deny you… is my love.” certainty was in his eyes, “Your beauty is beyond even what Elvish words could convey. You are high and valiant and have won renown and admiration on your own terms. And yet, seeing the workings of your heart is what captured me. The moments where your compassion and love burst forth for those who had need of you, even in moments that brought you shame, still you thought of protecting and loving others. Were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you Éowyn. My heart will never belong to another, now that I have known you.”

There were tears in Faramir’s eyes. Éowyn could feel the tears burning in her own eyes, and knew they reflected intermingled love and fear too. Then suddenly, Faramir was no longer focused on Éowyn. He had looked at something sitting on her night table. The lavender? No. Something small that glinted in the candlelight. Her token, a lock of hair tied with a small strip of leather. Éowyn watched his eyes dart to her books, and the leather strap that sat upon them. Then realization dawned in his gray eyes, and he looked back at her. A lock of her hair, tied with his leather. Faramir’s gaze found Éowyn’s again, and he took her hands into his and raised them to lips, placing an extended kiss on each of her palms. Éowyn shuddered at the sensation, feeling the thrill of his lips on her skin pulse through her.

The impulse came to her in an instant; a longing to feel his lips on hers, as in her dream of hope, and she knew it was right. Éowyn leaned into Faramir, using her hand to gently guide his face across the distance between them, and she kissed him. She felt him freeze at the first contact of their lips, but soon he was kissing her back eagerly. He ran his hands through her hair and opened his mouth and she could taste him, and it was wonderful. His other hand found her and pulled her closer to him. Interlocked in the passion that had wanted to come bursting forth since she realized she loved him was singing in all her limbs. Suddenly she felt a gentle touch pushing slightly away from her. Faramir’s eyes were wide, with such a tangle of emotions that Éowyn could not decipher them all. Then Faramir gazed at her with that supreme intensity again, his hands encircling hers. All other emotions had dropped away, and all Éowyn could see in Faramir’s eyes were love, as fear had been replaced with hope.

“Éowyn, nothing would bring me greater joy than your consent to marry me, if it be your will,” Faramir stared into her eyes ardently, both the thoughtful man and the hopeful boy in front of her, his heart now laid as bare as her’s.

Éowyn smiled through her tears and nodded.  
Yes, she would marry him.  
Yes, she would bear his children.  
Yes, she would comfort his troubled sleep in the night.  
Yes, she would help him make a garden in Ithilien, and she would heal the scarred land at his side.  
Yes, she would share her fears and darkest thoughts and be healed by his love.  
But then that final concern surged in her mind, and she had to know.

“Well, man of Gondor. Would you have me leave my home and my people? What will others say? There goes the Steward who tamed the wild Shieldmaiden of the north. Was there no one of Númenorean descent so worthy of your heart?” mischief flickered in Éowyn’s eyes, but so was that nagging doubt. That Gríma was right and blood of the House of Eorl was tainted.

Faramir had read both of her meanings. He leaned his head to her’s and kissed her brow, letting his nose caress her forehead before pulling back just enough to look fully into her eyes.

“Éowyn, the fairest daughter of the House of Eorl, there is no one on this earth you are not worthy of. You are beautiful yes, but the truth of you is what shines through in your heart. You laughed at Fear itself then smote it for your love of your uncle, and you heal others even while you yourself are healing a broken heart. Your love for those around you is ethereal, and cherished deeply by those of us lucky enough to bask in your glow. No, I daresay there are none more worthy of the highest loves than you Éowyn. I just hope that I am worthy of you in turn. And were you to take up in Rohan, so I would follow you there. My Stewardship is forfeit with one such as you in my life to love,” Faramir looked desperately at her, “Now please, answer me plainly. Will you marry me?”

“Yes, of course I will marry you! I can think of no greater joy in this world than becoming your wife.” Éowyn laughed, “And we will dwell in fair Ithilien, and there we will make a life. Nothing will fail to heal so long as you and I are together.”

Éowyn and Faramir were laughing and embracing, for the joy had overflowed from their hearts. As the wave of joy crested and broke, Éowyn looked again into Faramir’s eyes. All that time, it  _ was _ love in those eyes. Love for her. She wondered when he knew he loved her. Yet it mattered not, because there it was. Despite her faults. Despite her shame. He saw her and he loved her still. Éowyn closed the distance between them again, and kissed his lips, and Faramir pulled her in more tightly, fully giving into her kisses. If this was a preview of their future, then Éowyn knew that she was blessed. When they finally retreated from their reverie and passion, Éowyn picked up the small lock of hair, and handed it to him.

“A token,” she said, “to remind you that you have my heart.”

Faramir smiled at her, and brought his forehead to her’s, “nothing will I cherish so deeply as this.”

“It reminds me of you, of us,” Éowyn whispered tentatively,  _ Leather and lavender. _

And Faramir understood. He then looked at the closed door and jumped to his feet.

“I will write to your brother posthaste, asking him for your hand. As well as to my uncle. Declaring my love to you was the hard part, and now I shall announce my love and intention to make you my wife, to leave no doubt that my heart belongs to you. I also believe that this information will be desired by a certain Hobbit, who never lost faith that we would find each other.” Faramir had made his way over and opened the door. Peering out, he appeared satisfied that their private time had not attracted unwanted attention, “I will seek you tomorrow morning to have breakfast with you, to watch the sunrise. Never again will I be so foolish as to deny myself your company when there is nothing else in this world that I want more. I want to hear your hopes Éowyn, so I can do all in my power to give you everything in your heart. For you captured mine nearly the first time I laid eyes upon you.”

Faramir walked back over to Éowyn and laid a kiss on her lips. He seemed unable to let her go. Éowyn took his hand, and led him to her door.

“I will also write to my brother,” she said, “For if he sees my heart he will not deny me my love. I fear I will hardly sleep for waiting to see you again. But I will try. And… thank you for finally calling upon me tonight. My heart nearly broke thinking I’d lost you.”

Faramir pulled her into a tight embrace and kissed her again, “I will never do such a thing to your heart again Éowyn. I love you so much it hurts.”

It seemed to take all of Faramir’s will to pull himself away from her, but he finally succeeded. He looked anxiously out the corridor again.

“I love you.” Faramir kissed Éowyn’s hand.  
“I love you  _ min elskede _ ,” Éowyn replied, and her whole body was singing. She wondered how long it would take Faramir to translate her Rohirric,  _ my beloved. _

With a puzzled but invigorated final glance, Faramir left her room. Éowyn sighed as she closed the door, then dressed in her night clothes and got into bed, the images of her raven haired Steward trilled through her mind. His lips, his arms, his eyes, his tears, his hands, his hair, his voice, his  _ love _ . Tomorrow could not arrive soon enough, and she thought of the warmth of the sun rising, finally penetrating her skin. Finally penetrating the depths of her heart. She picked up the leather strap and inhaled its smell deeply, then looked at the stars on the mantle, glinting in the candlelight.

_ You win Elbereth, _ she thought, then she closed her eyes, and drifted to a contented sleep. Her sorrow was still present, but she knew she could weather it, for she knew love; from her beloved brother, her loyal Hobbit and her raven haired Steward. Éowyn would never have to promise the night that she would wake in the morning again.


End file.
